Ida Linehan Young's Blog

I was three, certainly not four when they first came.Tall, straight men with buzz cut styles and square stubble on the middle oftheir top lips. And they had guns but didn’t bring them into the house. Theywere loud and lively, and my father smelled of yeasty homebrew after they weregone. They were Americans.

I was four, certainly not five when they came again.They brought a bombardier, and boxes and boxes of stuff the likes of which wehad never seen before. Not even at Christmas had these wonders ever entered ourrealm. Even the black and white television when it was first turned on didn’tcompare. The biggest box could hold a fridge if we had known of such a thing atthe time. There were clothes, bicycles, footsies, and boardgames. Payday,Monopoly, Life, and a yellow box with a word on it none of us could pronounce.

I was five, certainly not six when I first heard therattle. The American’s were back. They brought their children. And dolls. Wenamed them after their American children. Tammy and Sherry were cherished foryears. As our bellies hit the floor, feet dancing in the air, we dressed andundressed those dolls. In the background, Bonnie and Lloyd were teaching myparents the game in the yellow box. It was Yahtzee.

I was six, certainly not seven when I watched myparents play Yahtzee as we gathered around the trouble game, the older onesplayed Life, a storm raged outside and there were no Americans. The plastic cupwas loud and sometimes one of them would let me shake their turn and spill outthe die across the kitchen table. Perhaps one would fall and clatter across thefloor and pause the game in the scramble to find it. All the score sheets weregone so they used scribblers or paper bags to keep track.

I was seven, certainly not eight when I played Yahtzeefor the first time. Dad wanted somebody to play and Mom was making bread. Therewas a storm outside. I had learned by watching and keeping score for Dad or Momon times. I loved the game. I was hooked.

I was nineteen, certainly not twenty when my thenboyfriend, now husband, learned to play. There would be a table full of us instiff competition. The shaking can had been worn out ten times over. Thecardboard baking powder tin made less noise. Tally sheets, scribblers, loose leaveswere worn out, numbers scratched into the table top through the brown paperbags. The Yahtzee die shaking was a constant and the shout of Yahtzee for fiveof a kind turned everyone’s head.

I was forty, certainly not forty-one when I played mylast game of Yahtzee with my father. He was keen to win and would play frommorning to night. By then my children had interest and played with him, too. Weknew the game had been passed on when we bought a game for our house in St.Brides and the can made a racket without either of my parents there. Nor theAmericans.

I was fifty-five, certainly not fifty-six when Itaught my grandson how to play Yahtzee. He’d come from upstairs after school. Sometimeshis Poppy would play with us and sometimes his Mommy. The familiar rattle ofthe die before they were upset on the table and the one that would sometimestake off and end up under the chesterfield held a generational comfort.

I was fifty-eight, certainly not fifty-nine when Iplayed my last game of Yahtzee with my mother. It was at the long-term care facilityand she could neither shake the can nor keep the score but she wanted to playanyway. We had endless games as we passed away the days at Pleasantview Towerstelling stories about my father and the Americans. I have her game tucked inbeside my own at the house.

I was sixty, certainly not sixty-one when I opened agift this past Christmas from my daughter. It was a new-fangled Yahtzee gamethat is just waiting to be opened on a stormy day and stories told about myfather, my mother, and the Americans.

Yahtzee!

Sammy was the shy sort. Perhaps not shy, but notinteresting. Certainly not like the others. His whole life had been spent inthe box or on the lowest bough of the tree. Not the inside tree either wheretales from the other bells regaled of sparkling-coloured lights, shiny tinsels,toys and presents, big and small, all ensconced in wrappings even fancier thanthe lights. Exclaiming of children’s laughter brought gasps and oohs and awesas the inside bells told tales that made the long winter stored in the boxes soexciting.

Then the outside bells, the ones on the tree on the hillside,would talk about the twinkling stars on the indigo and inky canvas above, thebrilliant Christmas moons, and the cape of white draped across the trees andfences and the diamonds on the ground when the sun shone bright.  They described the children racing down thehillside on their latest slide or skating on the pond, each story told from adifferent perspective depending where the bell hung on the tree.

When it came to Sammy’s turn, he had nothing to say. Hespent his time on the lowest bough, covered in the fluffy snow and not evenprivy to the wind though, admittedly, sometimes the shaking did reach thelowest perch. His only view was through the eyes of those on the higherbranches. He reveled in the tales from those above him and, on a rare occasion,wished that he could get to experience what they did. But for all his years onthe outdoor tree, he took the lowest bough.

Excitement built in the trunk when the noises from the atticgrew loud. It was always the same. Scraping and hauling and pushing clamours grewlouder and louder until the lid was lifted on the trunk and the momentary blindinglight signaled it was time.

Their cardboard beds were carried to the tree and as thetree grew, some of the inside bells even joined them. Those ones were welcomed heartilyand got to see both sides of Christmas. How fortunate they were. For Sammynothing had changed. He’d make his yearly debut as the last one to go on andwith a little pat from the mitted hand the tree was ready.  

Whispers of the wonders of the night sky reached him throughthe limbs though he could only see darkness or green and white. Daytime adventuresrang out through the fields and tickled his ears. Sammy enjoyed this time outsidethe box. It was what he was made for.

As snow piled higher, Sammy’s view turned white then blackand then a gray that distinguished night from day. The tree shook more than usual,and the muffled sounds and whispers grew quieter until they were gone. At firstSammy paid no heed to the quiet. It had happened before when the winter stormshad been a little more forceful. They’d hung outside for longer and regaled ofswinging round limbs and clinking together when they finally got back to thetime packed away in the trunk. Sammy knew nothing of the swinging and clinkingas he’d always been buried in the snow.

Sammy’s worries grew when the snow began to melt, and thewhispers were no longer there. He shouted in case the other bells couldn’t hearhim but didn’t get a response. Rain began to drip from the limbs overhead asrain pelted the tree. A few drops ran down his string, but he was mostly dryand protected. The snow melted and he was freed. It was when he noticed plants peekingthrough the ground and the quiet above him was long that he realized he’d beenforgotten.

He wasn’t the first this had happened to. He had heard ofbreezy and sunny days, but they were rare. One little bell had told of the birdsthat had nested in the tree and how she watched the babies fly off in thesummer.  But that was so long ago, hebarely remembered. They had missed her in the cardboard in the trunk, but shefit right in when she was collected after Christmas the next year. Sammy wouldn’tsee the birds because he was too low. He wouldn’t have those stories to tell.

He had been reminiscing when he felt the soft touch up on. Ababy fawn had taken refuge under the tree. She brushed her new fur against himas she settled beneath the bows. He watched her doze in the sun before she roseand knocked into him again. She sent him swinging on the branch. He hadn’t feltthat exhilarating rush of air before. Sammy was gleeful as the fawn returnedevery day to visit the resting place and keep him company.

Before too long the bees began to visit. They tickled hisoutsides and insides as they looked for flowers. Sometimes they were tired and tooka break at the very top of him or took shelter from the wind within hishollowed interior. He was happy to give them a safe place to rest before theybuzzed happily away. Flowers grew, the wild hay danced in the breeze, and theyoung ones frolicked in the field while their parents kept a watchful eye. Foxescame to sniff at him with their cold noses making him laugh. It was an exhaustingtime.

Sammy grew tired when the first cold winds played around thebase of the tree. The hay had been cut, the animals were gone, and leaves ofvarious colours swirled by before moving on. His eyes grew heavy.

He heard his name called in chorus when he realized theother bells were back. It must be Christmas again, he thought. Heshouted to them and welcomed them back to the tree and told them how glad hewas to know they were there and how he’d missed them. He listened to theirwhispers over the next few weeks before they returned to the cardboard beds inthe trunk.

“We want Sammy to go first,” the bells all said. “We want tohear about his adventures.”

Sammy regaled of the fawn, the foxes, and the bees and allthat he had seen from beneath the lowest bough. The oohs and awes of the otherswarmed his heart as he was asked several times to tell them again what he’dseen.

One of the bells from the inside tree proclaimed that Sammyhad outshone them all and they allowed they’d all like to be on the lowestbough where the best things happened.

Sammy smiled at his luck at being able to bringall these new experiences to the others before they returned to the tree onceagain and Sammy took his rightful place on the lowest bough.

My dearest Santa, I’m a long-time believer but first-timewriter to you. This is not the conventional letter. You see, I am writing toget some advice about lists. With all the goings on and the busyness of life yesterdayI wrote down five things to do this morning that I’ve been putting off andforgetting, whether convenient or not until after business hours, or it’s toolate to start, etc.

He’s making a list and checking it twice was on theradio yesterday as an anthem to you and your prowess at keeping all the kidsacross the world straight so I thought list was the appropriate way to go, checkthem off, and put them behind me. My piddly remove trailer from NL Services, removetrailer from insurance, call doctors office (for the third time) to get the portalset up, package the Starlink and return via Fedex, and order some books, didn’tseem that daunting. My list was added to the pink sticky note and laid on mylaptop for bright and early this morning.

I got a head start on it, first by going into NL ServicesOnline and it was a 24/7 operation. But the details weren’t correct from the trailerbuyer, and I had to look up the postal code for her address. That was just a tinyglitch. Figured it out and got an email from NL Services Online that thetrailer was removed. Now for the morning, I only had four things. How hardcould it be, Santa?

The insurance company had an app as well but I wasn’tfalling for that twenty minute q&a session with Janet the chatbot a secondtime. She lured me down a rabbit hole only to tell me that I had to call. So,Janet basically lied when she said all services could be done online. However,a nice lady from NL did answer promptly when I called and took care of thematter in short order. This time I wasn’t getting caught with Janet again, butshe was prompt in saying to call. I guess Janet learned a lesson from our lastencounter. That is not checked off yet though because of the next item Itackled on the list. Santa, how do you do it when things go wrong?

I called the doctors office and lo and behold the email thatI had called about for two weeks finally arrived. Third time lucky, I guess. Itwas easy. Just click the link and enroll. So, I did. I got a host of questions,the second one was automatically populated with the correct email address but Igot an error saying it was already registered. Which I can safely say it wasnot because if I don’t do the registering, it doesn’t get registered, justsaying. I called the office back and the lady told me just to click on the helpbutton and get it resolved. For ten minutes I looked for the help button,clicked every place on the site and not a helper to be seen. I found a toll-freenumber which I called and there was another Janet who lured me through a dozenmenu options and finally disposed of me with a hang up without resolution. I startedagain and clicked some more and found a random page which allowed me to enter informationand it is in the Janetverse somewhere waiting for somebody to take pity on me.Tell me Santa, if they don’t get back to me, do you put Janet on the Naughtylist?

My frustration level was rising now so I printed off the Starlink return label for the courier from the third reminder email and readiedthe box. I had to schedule a pick-up. Well now Santa, if I had to call theNorth Pole and asked you to pick it up and drop it off in California, I think I’dbe better off. I’m not insensitive to the plight of the carriers but Starlink don’treally show mercy when they give you ten days to return the bad equipment or becharged. (Another few people for your naughty list I do believe). But Idigress.

I went online to schedule a pick up. IMPOSSIBLE, yes all capitalizedfor a reason. After twenty minutes of the site telling me I had to pay like$600 on a pre-shipped label and fill out a custom’s form I gave up when Janetsaid she couldn’t help me and that I really should speak to an agent. ThanksJanet, at least give me a number or connect me. No, nothing like that so Janetshould be bolded on your naughty list. I found a 1800 number through some sleuthingand connected with another Janet who finally allowed me to speak to an agent.That poor fellow was patient and kind but couldn’t help. He talked to me forabout fifteen minutes, collected all the details, twice, but then he tried toschedule a pickup. It was in vain, only to tell me to call back the next dayand see if he could get me on a list. Oh Starlink, do you understand thesetroubles. Please show mercy.

Then I looked online again for places to drop it off. I waspointed to a pit at Kent’s in CBS. Then I said to myself, I wonder does Kenttake the packages. I called and a nice lady said sure, drop it off here and don’tworry about it. She is going on the nice list, eh Santa. Let’s just puteveryone there on the nice list, please.

Forty-five minutes later, I’m at item number three. That waseasy. Took about two minutes. Sylvia was pleasant and took my book order. Shedefinitely gets on the nice list. Don’t forget her Santa.

Item number four was also easy, took about ten minutes and theinsurance company guy, Jeff, he should make the nice list as well. I got a fewdiscounts when he reviewed my file since he had me on the line. Nice listplease. Only a suggestion though Santa since you are the authority.

I guess, Santa, I worked my way through the problems, testedmy patience to the highest limits, and have all but one item fully checked (and scratched and crossed out and gouged) since I’m waiting on Naughty-list-Janet to get back to me with the medicalportal details. It’s out of my hands now but I managed to get through it on myown. That was only five things. Santa, how do you do it with the millions youget? Hero worship here.

If I’m not too old for a Christmas wish and since I neverreally bothered you before, please bring Janet a book to properly educate herin checklist etiquette. That will make me and many others very happy.

Merry Christmas Santa. Keep on doing what you do. You are abright light in the darkening world and I, for one, appreciate you. Thanks forletting me vent.

I was ten years old, and spring had come to NorthHarbour. Mud tracked in on white tile floors, runny noses, and the first dregsof heat from the sun were tell-tale signs. Lambs were dropping from thetwenty-two ewes in pairs and triplets and my father spent a lot of time in thestable.

This was different than other springs in that thelambs were more plentiful. We’d lost neither sheep to a dog over the winter.Dad was allowing we’d have a good fall when the meat man came, and money wasexchanged for the youngest in the flock.

Long-term plans meant the pantry would be filledand we could get an extra blouse or shirt for school in September. A goodspring lambing season made things easier in the fall.

Every day we’d get off the school bus and run inthe lane to a chorus of bleats from the meadow as the tiny lambs found theirlegs and gamboled in murmuration as if conducted by some invisible sheeporchestrator.

There were still three or four left to lamb whenDad came in and mentioned one of the sheep was having a hard time. Through thewindow he pointed as the sheep spasmed in labour on the side of the hill. Shetried to get up when Mom and Dad went to her, but the poor thing wasn’t able tostand.

As children do, we lost interest to the suppertable and forgot about the sheep until much later when Mom returned. Since itwas still fairly cold at night for the littlest, and two sheep had yet tobirth, Dad put all the animals in the stable and the one that struggled hadfinally given birth to three.

The next morning, he came in with a lamb drapedover his hand and asked Mom to make a bottle of milk. She had bottles for justsuch things since it was commonplace to help a struggling lamb along until itwas big enough to be put back with the others. Sometimes the ewe needed helpand sometimes she wouldn’t accept the lamb. The latter, Dad dreaded becausewhat it cost in milk to keep them wouldn’t be made up in the fall. He’d makeseveral attempts to ply the ewe with her lamb.

Mom dreaded these “legacies” as she called themfor a different reason. The bottle-fed ones hung around the door long afterthey’d been weaned. She’d often come from Nanny’s in the dark and when she’dnear the step, the sheep would scramble to life on the other side of the fenceand start to baa, that would frighten the others and there’d be a big racket.She’d get a start and batter them away, but they’d be back bawling for milk atsunrise.

So, this morning, Mom was making porridge and shegave me the lamb to feed. She dipped her finger in the molasses and spread iton the rubber nipple and laid the warm bottle in my hand.

I was excited to take on this new activity. It,among other things, made me feel more mature than my ten years. The littlething shivered, and its heart thumped softly beneath my fingers. I was smitten.

Once it got the taste of the sweet molasses, itslowly drew on the milk. The little lamb’s mouth foamed as it suckled once itgot the hang of it. I decided to name it Lambchops after a puppet I’d seen ontelevision.

Dad put a carboard box behind the stove andcovered the bottom with an old towel. Once the lamb had fed, I laid Lambchopsinto the box where it could stay warm. The fire was low, just enough to take achill off the house so Dad figured it was the best place for my first pet.

After school I sat on the daybed and fed the tinylamb a few more times. Dad said he didn’t hold out much hope for its survival,but we’d do everything we could to make it possible.

By the weekend, the lamb became stronger.Lambchops was three days old and could almost stand without falling over. Dadtried to put the lamb under its mother, but she had two thriving others andrefused to feed Lambchops. She pucked it away and Dad decided we’d feed it fora few more days and then try again.

I was delighted. Sunday was sunny so I tookLambchops to the meadow and sat on a piece of cardboard as the lamb fed andslept. I stroked its side and petted the tiny body as the other lambs playedaround me. Lambchops wasn’t as big as any of them now and all the ewes hadlambed. Still, though a runt, she’d have a chance and catch up to them in notime.

The Carnation Milk was getting a good cutting fromthe pantry as I kept Lambchops fed. My time before and after the school buscame and went was dedicated to Lambchops.

By this time the back gap was opened and thesheep, no longer corralled, wandered off and fed on grass around the community.I stayed longer in the meadow with Lambchops. She was standing now and makingattempts to gambol as she figured out she had legs. Dad moved the box to thestable, added some hay for comfort, and she stayed with the others at night. Iwent out to feed her as the rest of the flock took off for the day.

Lambchops was about two weeks old when I came homefrom school to find she’d gone. Dad said she’d found her mother and the ewe hadfinally accepted her.

I was happy for Lambchops but saddened just thesame. A part of me wanted to care for Lambchops forever. Though I knew it wasselfish, I was disappointed at Lambchops independence.

When the sheep returned that evening, I looked forher but she wasn’t with the flock. Dad checked the stable and around the backgap but the lamb was not to be found. I stayed on the top of the hill andlistened for the sound of the little lamb bawling but there was none. Isearched the woods on Soaker’s Path just beyond the gate. I was usually a bitfrightened to go beyond the gap alone, so I didn’t do it. But my desire to findmy little charge was more important and fear knew that so didn’t bubble to thesurface.

Dad believed Lambchops had made it so far with thesheep but hadn’t been able to keep up. He said the ewe might have left herbehind then as she kept up with the flock.

I was flabbergasted by this notion and simplycouldn’t believe it. I thought the lamb had wandered away from the rest,probably fell asleep and didn’t wake when the draw to home took over and thesheep returned. I pictured Lambchops wandering in the drizzle of the lateevening frantically searching for me or her mother. I believed it was in thatorder and that I had a responsibility to find her.

I took a flashlight and scoured the ridge outsidethe fence calling to Lambchops and listening for her. I imagined her coming tothe top of the path and seeing me and running to me. She’d never go with hermother again but stay under my protection.

But alas, Mom called me home for the night andLambchops was scared and alone in my thoughts and my dreams that night. Thenext day I met Dad by the stable to see if a miracle had happened and Lambchopswas there. But he shook his head.

I went to school with a heavy heart, thinking of Lambchopsand hoping she’d be there when I got home. Lambchops hadn’t returned. I went ona wider search, looking for the sheep hangout and didn’t find Lambchops.

By the third day I became frantic to find her. She’dbe hungry and cold, and I just wanted to feed her and lay her behind the stoveand protect the essence of her.

After supper Dad mentioned that somebody had foundthe lamb dead in the woods. Well to say I was devastated would put it mildly. Iflung myself on the couch, my face buried into the pillow, and I screechedunconsolably for hours. I went to bed with a headache and drank a glass ofwater so I could have more tears for Lambchops. I didn’t think I’d criedenough.

The next day I wanted to find the lamb’s motherthat had lured Lambchops away, but all the sheep looked alike to me. I wantedto shout at her and call her a bad ewe for what she’d done to Lambchops. I wassad and heartbroken for my poor little lamb.

I was two or three weeks trying to get over herloss, the maddening anger I felt toward Lambchops’ mother, and the devastationof being without the love of the lamb stayed with me until I woke up one day and was no longer sad.

This was my first encounter with loss and grief. Itchanged the child I was, and I fed lambs the next year but didn’t want theattachment that I’d came to have to Lambchops for fear of losing them and beingthat hurt again. Or maybe I just grew out of the notions my younger self had.

Spring, when the shoots of new grass poke throughthe yellowed and muddied tangle blanketing the meadows, I sometimes think ofLambchops and my lesson on grief. I smile at the silliness of how it all playedout and my childish beliefs but at the time it was very real for my wounded andcompassionate ten-year-old heart.

 

 

Once upon a time ago I was a kite. I was stored with theother kites, content and happy to be the shape of the wind and to wait for mytime. And when it was my time, somebody was there to help me take off. One, two,three attempts, or as many as needed, they’d run through the meadow with me,and the hands would let me go off on my own when I was ready. But I wasn’treally on my own.

I climbed the sky and faltered but the string on the spool ofthe hand that held me played me on the breeze so I could get high enough to bemy full kite self. I soared and danced on a breeze laughing and happy to justbe a kite. My string guided me. It pulled me in when things got rough, orconditions weren’t right. It gave me more lead when I wanted to explore, butall the while I knew it was there to ground me.

Once upon another time ago I graduated to a string on aspool. When my time was done, I was remade and repurposed. I had a bigresponsibility which I earned and understood through the wings of the kite I’donce been. Now I held something precious, a beautiful, coloured kite that flutteredand glided and tugged and strained while I gave it the reins it needed to bethe best kite it could become.

People would look up and remark on our outline against thesky. Some said I should let the kite go off on its own to be a better kitewithout me. It could go higher than I ever dared to let it go and beyond thelength I could become. But that wasn’t my job. I had to stay fastened, or the kitewouldn’t be a kite, now would it. Oh yes, it would be for a little while whenthe breeze was just right, but when the wind blew hard or not at all, the kitewould have no way to get back, to wait, to play on the wind and just be a kite.

It would somersault and cartwheel for a bit and think it wasstill a magnificent kite until it could no longer sustain the unattachment. Inthe frenzy of unattachment, it would whip and fold onto itself. The kite would falland crash and scrunch and tumble along the streets. Its parts would break offor snap and tangle, it’s fabric would tear, and fray and it would becomerefuse. People would walk past it, probably the same ones who had wanted you tolet go, and some may comment on its colour or remark that it used to be abeautiful kite. But alas none would do for the kite what I’d once done.

I, too then, would no longer be a string. I would lay in thesoil having failed at my kite holding job and perhaps feel sorry for myselfbecause I could no longer see nor hold the kite. I would fade and ravel andfret for what once was. I would look for another, perhaps smaller kite, but myhopes of tying to another would be slim the longer I remained rotting anduseless on the ground.

Then I would doubt myself as a string like the kite surelydoubted itself as it lay broken and forgotten in an alley behind a dumpster andout of sight of everyone.

Once upon a later time we could be found by the kind-heartedwho believed we still have purpose. They put us in blue bins and bring us to afacility where we are re-engineered. The kite is remade, and I am cleaned,refreshed, and respooled. I will never be a kite like I once was but if I’mlucky, I’ll measure my length as a kite string and hold on tight enough thatthe kite can be itself, but not too hard that it will want to let go or tearfree.

Alas, as I think on my time as the string, I discover it isme no longer. I am now the spool. I have to teach the kite and the string thelessons I once learned about holding on just right and about the abandon ofbeing a kite. Though I let them both go, I know I’ll be there to reel them inand stay with them when the conditions aren’t right to be neither kite, nor string,nor spool. They mightn’t like not being able to fly and soar all the time orlaced to the kite and the grounding, but I remind them that there are worsethings than having boundaries. Part of being the spool is to pass on that theyshould enjoy their time as a kite and a string while that time is upon them anddo all the kitey and stringy things they can instead. If they waste their timeon wanting to be free of the string or the spool it is time they can’t get back,they will have missed the best breezes looking for freedom that can’t be givento a kite nor a string. It’s a glorious thing to be a kite when you’re a kite.It’s a glorious thing to be a string when you’re a string. It’s a gloriousthing to be a spool when you’re a spool.

But the kite can’t be a kite without the support of thestring and the spool. They are a package deal in this wild and windy andsometimes unforgiving world where being recycled is not always available whenthe lending hand can’t find what’s become of you when you went so far youcouldn’t get back to being anything repurposed, remade, or respooled and youpine for the time when you were a kite eagerly climbing the air.

 

 

I remember the first day I went to grade one as vividly as if it were today. I got on a bussurrounded by the only people I knew in the whole of my world, my family. I wasthe 7th one on the bus from the Linehan household so I knew sixpeople within the confines of that yellow metal new-to-me experience. That wasthe day my world expanded beyond the boundaries of the Linehan fences. To makematters more complicated, I was ten days late because of a sore throat that hadtaken me out like so many before it and so many to come.

That first time going to school was a terrifying rebirth inways that none would particularly understand today because of play dates, daycare, pre-kindergarten, kindergarten, MacDonalds, Hockey, Soccer, Music, camps,birthday parties, etc. that allow kids to connect. Conveniences like washingmachines and dryers, crock pots, air fryers, electric ranges that will cook anytime you want, freezer meals, vacuums, electronic sweepers, all the things thattake away the menial tasks that were once more labourious and essential toliving. They were a lot bigger than menial in that they took up all the time of,really, mostly the women and mothers and there was very little time left for themselves. Allthese kids activities we weren’t exposed to, so my world remained inside thefence posts with the one who made all those things look easy. And that was thesame for mostly every other household that we would come to know.

Now me and the five other grade one students of 1970 onAlbert MacDonald’s bus from North Harbour to Our Lady of Mount Carmel schoolare or have turned sixty in 2024. We and the other twenty odd in our class havespread out across the world. Some we have lost, some have returned to their rootsin our little bay, and some have no intention of coming back, even for a visit.Regardless, they shaped that vulnerable part of my life from that wide-eyed andfrightening day on the bus until grade eleven graduation.

Not all these experiences within those eleven years werefun I might add. Like being in the crosshairs of Rayme D when he had the dodgeball, and youwere the only thing between him and a win. Not fun. Well, if he got you. But ifyou got him, that was a different story. New friendships popped up that remaintoday while others are just pictures in a yearbook because I haven’t seen themsince the last bell in 1981. Overall, that was a time of growth. Moving onafter that was quite traumatizing, as well. Not only because of what happenedto me that last summer before grade eleven but also because it was going outinto the world on a new school bus with nobody familiar around to keep mecompany. Social media wasn’t a thing, so our only social was within the walls ofthe school or the endpoints of North Harbour. The September after graduation,our worlds expanded. Knowing you’d survive it because you’d doneit before was cold comfort. Again, I was ten days late starting and friendshipshad been made of which I was never part of. Being in the crosshairs of teachersmaligning me because I was a girl trying to do a “man’s” job at CivilEngineering was also terrifying. It was a thing and the was hasn't quite lived up to its name because it's still a thing.

Then I got married and moved to a new community and theworld expanded again. That time I had a partner who could introduce me to thisnew world. Family happens as family does and the next thing the world turned upsidedown and I was off to school again, college this time uncaring that I was alonegoing through the same doors that had not been kind to me the time before. Itwas different, not at all intimidating. I was older and my own care was for thefamily I got to see on weekends.  

After that it was off to work with the federal government,new world but a few people that I'd gone through college with accompanied me on that bus into the newest expansion.

I’ve spent a little less than half my life as a federal public servant. Now I can’t believe I have twenty-four work weeks until I leave that world behind. I made a decision in January that I’d retire this year. People who don’t know what it is actually like to work as a federal public servantwill say, “oh, you had it knocked,” meaning that I cruised through those twenty-sevenyears without much to do, with no stress, feet up, paid well, etc. That’s notthe truth. To them that knows, I was driving the bus on so many things, out infront of change, pioneering, and working hard to improve things that made senseand unafraid to speak up when things didn’t. I can truly say I loved my job andeven the times that the dodgeball was aimed at me was exhilarating.

My kids thought and still think I was/am a spy, but I digress.

Like all choices I make, I move on. I don’t waste time on a second guess,nor do I remake decisions. I’m excited for this new bus into the ever after of retirement.Perhaps I’ll spend some time at the wheel and perhaps I’ll do a hop on hop off version into my expansion. I have lots to look forward to and I’m not done yet. I’ll write more. I’lladventure more. I’ll write more about those adventures. Maybe I'll start something new.

What I am most proud off is that I’ve made the most extraordinaryfriendships at school, at college, at work, and through writing, and thoseconnections will continue long past my final day at work, October 15, 2024. I could never imagine all these people when I got on that bus in grade one.

As I reflect more on my twenty-four remaining weeks at work(I know the math doesn’t add up but that’s where the spy thing comes in 😉),in this year of 2024, it might seem appropriate to drink a “24” for the 24 remaining weeks, but I do haveto work tomorrow and I’m allergic to beer.

Whether I have 24 minutes, hours, months, years, ahead ofme, I know this is not an end but a new beginning. A chance to pick my expanding. Nothing I can change behind me. So, look out world, I’m beingunleashed at a bus stop full of lessons learned and not an ounce of anxiety orfear as I look for destinations.

If you’re lucky enough to have me as your driver when youget on, your lucky enough. Kidding, not kidding. That’s up to you. Expanding happens all the time. Embrace it. Possibilities, come here till I get a look at you.

For the last few weeks, the urge has been strong upon me toplay a game of cards called Queens. Now it is no good having the urge byyourself if you have nobody to play it with because it is not a single playergame. So, the gnawing sense of needing to play has been tumbling around in thewhite noise of the day, creeping into silent gaps, and waving for attention. Iknow the underlying cause, there is a picture of my father on my computer table.He is in the usual stance, shoulders pulled back, arms by his side, and makinga funny face. That’s the way he posed for every single picture that he was inby himself if he knew the snap was coming.

If he was corralled to be in one of our wedding or thechildren’s christening photos, there was still the chance that the developedface would not be “resting face” Dad, but the distorted frame that you got. Whenhe died on February 10th, 2001, the funeral director couldn’t quiteget that proper “resting face” though he was really resting then, because evenin death, Dad had the last chance to make a face (just a little one, but I sawit and smiled).

He is gone 23 years today as I write this. There are notears and not because I don’t miss him or because it’s been 23 years and youcan’t possibly grieve somebody for that long, but because he wouldn’t want it. Andby the way, only people who don’t experience grief put a limit on it. Do yourown grief thing.

The want to have a game of queens is that grief playing inthe background sending subtle reminders that somebody is missing, there’s ahole, and that I miss somebody because of it. Back in the day, we wouldn’t get ourcoats off on any day but would meet Dad walking toward the table with the twodecks of cards and the biggest grin. We'd have to have an all-day game with abreak for a mug up on the first day of a visit. He wore out some decks of cardsand was the most cheerful when he was winning.

He could have had so many reasons not to be cheery becausethere wasn’t a lot of sunshine for him to brag about. His mother died when hewas just a baby, 18 months old, and his dad died when he was a young boy. Helost many of his brothers in their youth and all his siblings moved away. Hewas a young orphan during the Great Depression which couldn't have been easy.He was working when he was twelve. He spent most of WW2 in the Forestry Unit inScotland. He learned to read and write on his own and was dubbed to have agrade 8 education even though he hadn’t stepped inside a schoolhouse. Hemarried at 36 and reared a big family with very little. He moved his house fromJohn's Pond to North Harbour all on his own and board by board and then builtit back up based on the numbers he’d traced on them as he took them down. Then,not too many years later the house burnt, and five of his ten children weregone. How much more we know nothing about because he never spoke of nor dwelledon hard times.

My father had a reverence for the past. He liked to talkabout this old fellow or that old fellow and who he was related to and how. He’dbe so proud to know of all the connections we’ve made to relatives in far awaylands that are his great nieces and nephews through DNA and my writing. When myoldest daughter was around eighteen months old, he asked me to bring her in oneNovember day. She was born on his birthday, and he wanted to see how big he waswhen his mother died. He still had memories of her.

As a young girl, I spent lots of time “in the country” withhim at rabbits or trouting or picking berries. Bakeapples, especially, requireda long hike of more than an hour to get to the right marshes. He had lots ofpatience with young legs and carried us across rivers on his back no matter howmany of us went. And there was always a mug up or two somewhere during thedays. He’d light a fire and boil a can of water for tea or bring a thermos ortwo. The pause in the day was important to him. When all of us got moreinterested in throwing berries at each other than picking, he’d round us up(not mad or impatient) and we’d head for home.

He also didn’t miss a day going to the church. No matter theweather, he’d rig up to step over our fence and make his way to the church fora few prayers. Even when he broke his ankle, he still went until later in lifewhen his body didn’t allow him to go any longer. He continued to pray at home.

He was resilient because he had to be, a man of faith becausehe wanted to be, kind because he knew the value of it, happy because he alsoknew the value of that, and so many more great things that he passed on. Thougha man of solitude, he was the epitome of a father by all accounts when we weregrowing up. I have lots of great memories of all the love that was shown in somany untraditional ways.

We’ve all got stories of how we came quietly into being. Myfather’s wasn’t remarkable by no means, but like many things, extraordinaryhappens when nobody is looking. Now I have to round up a crew to have a game ofqueens.

Grief and sickness gnawed at my edges for a loose thread. Myseams, stitched with strength and fortitude many lifetimes before this one,held fast. My mind whispered to memories of better times and my body to hope forrenewal of physical strength like the earth waiting for spring.  That’s how I stepped onto Inis Mor.

Private in my struggle for wellness after major surgery lessthan two months before, my mind was a battlefield of longing over ability, andmy ability was testing me daily. I wandered near for fear far was too much and therugged sooth-stone of Inis Mor was a delight at every step. She unveiledherself each morning with rich green fields, shiny pebbled beaches, and stonewalls to guide my every step.

Her gentle breeze soothed every doubt that bubbled askingwhy I’d come. Now I can’t say she was happy to see me on day one as she stormedand drove rain to the bone as soon as I stepped off the ferry. But after rantingat my presence for the better part of that first day, she calmed and made thebest of it. Secretly, I think it was the other writers that made her mad. Let’sgo with that.

The balcony of Kilmurvey House made the feeble starlightmagical when Inis Mor bedded down for the night. The moon bathed the land in awonderous hue that whispered of ancients and secrets that I could never hope tounderstand. When sunrise beckoned each morning, I dared not miss it and InisMor quietened the sighs both inside and out as I dodged to get a new point ofview. I sat on the beach, in the meadow, and one day dared to sit with the deadas dawn drenched both the land and my spirit into a new day.

Dún Aengus behind me was the last to get the sun, butpossibly the first as the fortified plateau at the top of the ridge was enticinglike that. It was a long way up and most of the others had already explored it.The views were supposed to be spectacular. I wondered in those first days if I’dfind out for myself.

The island challenged me every morning in a duel to the lifeand finally I accepted. Morning number six would be the day. I wanted to watchthe sun and it would be bright enough for about an hour to hike the greatlandscape before the sun actually crested the eastern horizon. Arguably, as Iwent up, the rise to the east wasn’t as elevated, so I had to keep that inmind.

I was a tiny bit anxious in the morning. What if I couldn’tmake it flashed through my mind as I slid into the pre-dawn gloaming. I wasgoing to take my time and if it took me all day, I’d eventually get there mystubborn self reminded and, of course, coming down would be a lot easier.

Outside in the garden, to my surprise, Ed was waiting. Hewas an early riser and, truth be told, his wife made him go in case I got intotrouble. He was no company and the best company at the same time. He went aheadand lingered and got side tracked and explored and passed me and lingered andin no way put any pressure on me to do more than I was doing. I hardly knew hewas there. I think Inis Mor had sent him to let me know I did not need to fearher majesty nor the path.

The climb was hardly a climb to most of the writers on theretreat. I’m sure Ed could have been up and back a few times before I crossedthrough the last doorway into the fortress. The sun had waited for me, too. Thefresh salt air filled my lungs as I gazed west toward Newfoundland and waved. Ifelt more alive in that minute than I had in a long time.

I watched the sun break through the mist on the horizon andinfuse itself into everything around me. The land sang of rebirth, the searoared several hundred feet below, the wind hurled itself over the cliff faceinto the solemnity of the rock-walled fortress just like it must have done fivethousand years before. Despite all the days before this one, this was the firstfor me. It was magically awesome and fulsomely simple. I wondered on thehardship for the layers of the stones and thanked them for their dedication togetting me to this day. I explored the crevices and stayed away from the cliff’sedge just in case it wanted to curtsy me off into the Atlantic. I’ll make myown way down, thank you very much. And so, I did.

I went up a few more times, no longer fearful of my ability.Each time was breath-taking, sometimes because of the wind but always becauseof the beauty of Inis Mor and my eagerness to reach the top. Etched in rock, tattooedwith fences, alive with people, she’s been steadfast in her service to those sheharbours and those who step onto her shores.

I don’t know that my feet will ever feel Inis Mor beneaththem, but if it does, I’ll remember her cradling me in her care and I’llrespect all that she offers because of that and because it’s the right thing todo. I wave at her sometimes from the edge of the Atlantic. I’m hopeful shefeels my breath climb her cliffs and as it joins with the millions of otherswho sing her praises.

Thank you, little island, you made a big impression and securedmy threads so I can endure the next storm.

 

Grief and sickness gnawed at my edges for a loose thread. Myseams, stitched with strength and fortitude many lifetimes before this one,held fast. My mind whispered to memories of better times and my body to hope forrenewal of physical strength like the earth waiting for spring.  That’s how I stepped onto Inis Mor.

Private in my struggle for wellness after major surgery lessthan two months before, my mind was a battlefield of longing over ability, andmy ability was testing me daily. I wandered near for fear far was too much and therugged sooth-stone of Inis Mor was a delight at every step. She unveiledherself each morning with rich green fields, shiny pebbled beaches, and stonewalls to guide my every step.

Her gentle breeze soothed every doubt that bubbled askingwhy I’d come. Now I can’t say she was happy to see me on day one as she stormedand drove rain to the bone as soon as I stepped off the ferry. But after rantingat my presence for the better part of that first day, she calmed and made thebest of it. Secretly, I think it was the other writers that made her mad. Let’sgo with that.

The balcony of Kilmurvey House made the feeble starlightmagical when Inis Mor bedded down for the night. The moon bathed the land in awonderous hue that whispered of ancients and secrets that I could never hope tounderstand. When sunrise beckoned each morning, I dared not miss it and InisMor quietened the sighs both inside and out as I dodged to get a new point ofview. I sat on the beach, in the meadow, and one day dared to sit with the deadas dawn drenched both the land and my spirit into a new day.

Dún Aengus behind me was the last to get the sun, butpossibly the first as the fortified plateau at the top of the ridge was enticinglike that. It was a long way up and most of the others had already explored it.The views were supposed to be spectacular. I wondered in those first days if I’dfind out for myself.

The island challenged me every morning in a duel to the lifeand finally I accepted. Morning number six would be the day. I wanted to watchthe sun and it would be bright enough for about an hour to hike the greatlandscape before the sun actually crested the eastern horizon. Arguably, as Iwent up, the rise to the east wasn’t as elevated, so I had to keep that inmind.

I was a tiny bit anxious in the morning. What if I couldn’tmake it flashed through my mind as I slid into the pre-dawn gloaming. I wasgoing to take my time and if it took me all day, I’d eventually get there mystubborn self reminded and, of course, coming down would be a lot easier.

Outside in the garden, to my surprise, Ed was waiting. Hewas an early riser and, truth be told, his wife made him go in case I got intotrouble. He was no company and the best company at the same time. He went aheadand lingered and got side tracked and explored and passed me and lingered andin no way put any pressure on me to do more than I was doing. I hardly knew hewas there. I think Inis Mor had sent him to let me know I did not need to fearher majesty nor the path.

The climb was hardly a climb to most of the writers on theretreat. I’m sure Ed could have been up and back a few times before I crossedthrough the last doorway into the fortress. The sun had waited for me, too. Thefresh salt air filled my lungs as I gazed west toward Newfoundland and waved. Ifelt more alive in that minute than I had in a long time.

I watched the sun break through the mist on the horizon andinfuse itself into everything around me. The land sang of rebirth, the searoared several hundred feet below, the wind hurled itself over the cliff faceinto the solemnity of the rock-walled fortress just like it must have done fivethousand years before. Despite all the days before this one, this was the firstfor me. It was magically awesome and fulsomely simple. I wondered on thehardship for the layers of the stones and thanked them for their dedication togetting me to this day. I explored the crevices and stayed away from the cliff’sedge just in case it wanted to curtsy me off into the Atlantic. I’ll make myown way down, thank you very much. And so, I did.

I went up a few more times, no longer fearful of my ability.Each time was breath-taking, sometimes because of the wind but always becauseof the beauty of Inis Mor and my eagerness to reach the top. Etched in rock, tattooedwith fences, alive with people, she’s been steadfast in her service to those sheharbours and those who step onto her shores.

I don’t know that my feet will ever feel Inis Mor beneaththem, but if it does, I’ll remember her cradling me in her care and I’llrespect all that she offers because of that and because it’s the right thing todo. I wave at her sometimes from the edge of the Atlantic. I’m hopeful shefeels my breath climb her cliffs and as it joins with the millions of otherswho sing her praises.

Thank you, little island, you made a big impression and securedmy threads so I can endure the next storm.

 

The merriment and excitement in the faces of my siblings,Sharon, Harold, and Barry, undoubtedly matched my own. It was Christmas andtime to put up the tree. For the past several weeks leading into Christmas, we had saved the eggcartons and prepared for this day. The box of pressed-cardboard bells were stackedand ready, their colours influenced by whatever our minds could create with thesixteen pack of Crayola’s that we shared. 

With two pairs of scissors, myself and Sharon, the eldest ofthe four, did the cutting. We carefully snipped off the cover and then acrossthe rows of the carton, being careful not to tear into the cup portion and ruinand opportunity to craft an ornament.

Having the couple of dozen free, their edges shaped in wigglesand triangles by our small hands, we all took to designing. Once we had drawnand coloured stripes, waves, diamonds, and circles on the brownish background,I had the task of making the hole in the top. The puncture was a skilled affairso as not to tear the decoration or make the hole too big that the yarnwouldn’t hold. Sharon carefully clipped off grey yarn while Barry and Haroldmade whopping great knots on the end and pushed the other end through theholes, sometimes with the aid of the scissors tip. I finished them off with aloop tied on the outer end big enough to hang on the limbs.

When all the bells were complete, the next task was thegarland. That year we had a package of multi-coloured construction paper. Sharonand I were again the scissor wielding strip cutters. Harold and Barry contortedthem into circles and used the Elmer glue to dab the ends keeping the pressureon them until they dried.

After all the strips were cut and many of the loops weremade, we worked together to join the loops and make a multi-coloured paperchain for the tree. We piled the bells and paper chains in a Carnation milk boxuntil we were ready.

With axe and bucksaw in hand, we headed in over the ridge tofind the perfect tree. Some of the requirements included a small size that waseasy to drag out. We were allowed to venture as far as Soaker’s Path which wason the hill behind the back meadow. This was shouting distance from the backdoor. There was lots of young spruce growth, so we picked a tree that wasBarry’s height and cut it down. We took turns pulling the tree along the top ofthe snow, all downhill, as far as the woodpile.

There, Dad nailed two splits crosswise on the stump so thatit would easily stand. Sharon helped me pick it up and carry it, butt first,around the woodpile, along the narrow path between the cribbing that held upthe back of the standing woodpile and the bordering board fence. It seemed sofar for our little legs until we reached the corner where the fence took a turnup the hill and the woodpile ended. We had the opening barred off with asection of fence so that we could create our own little house. The only way inwas through the magical passageway under the wood where we transformed fromchild to adult between ends and reverted back again on the way out.

Eagerly, Harold and Barry ran to the house and fetched thebox of decorations. The ground was uneven, so the tree was partially leaningagainst the corner in the fence. We quickly fixed that with a few strings ofyarn tied to the fence and the woodpile. It was magnificent. We set to workwith the paper chain, each one of us taking turns to fix and move and drapeuntil it was perfect. Then we took the bells and strung them from the branches.The wool from the hangers puffed on the limb and was difficult to move onceturpentine from the fresh tree grabbed on to it. That left globs of decorationsin some places until we decided to plan instead of just doing.

We admired our creation before Barry mentioned we didn’thave a star. We dragged the milk box back to the house and cut out a five-pointstar. Mom gave us a strip off the tinfoil roll. We crinkled it over thecardboard until everything was covered and shiny and fingerprinty.

Dad cracked off the narrowest split from the woodbox and wescotched-taped it to what we concluded was the back. We took more yarn tofasten that to the narrow sprig at the height of the young spruce. Away we wentagain to crown the Christmas Tree. Harold balanced on the top of the fence andheld the star while Barry tipped the tree forward and me and Sharon strung theyarn around and around until the star’s fate was sealed. We gingerly placed ourElizabethan tree back in the corner and fidgeted with the paper chain untilnothing was bare.

Our tree was complete but for one thing, we had to set ourplaces around it. We raced out the passageway and grabbed four chunks of woodthat Dad had clove and threw into a pile by the sawhorse. The biggest ones madethe best chairs. This wood was dry so there was no chance of getting stickyturpentine on our pants. We laid the sticks with the rolly side down around thetiny space. I chose closest to the woodpile because it gave me the best viewingangle and I could lean on the sticks when I wanted.

We all sat in silence our rosy cheeks bursting with pride aswe gazed at the Christmas Tree in our own little house. The egg-carton bellsswayed in the icy breeze of the winter air where it found its way between thecracks of the fence behind it. We discussed whether we’d lay stockings out butdecided against it because it might be cold on Christmas morning. It was betterif Santa got a rest and warmed inside the house rather than having to getthrough the narrow passage leading in.

A chill settled on us, so we ran to the house and Mom madeus each a cup of tea and a slice of toast. With great care we carried thebrimming mugs back to our spots and sipped the warm liquid and chewed on the crispyslabs of toast. Tiny flecks of snow meandered towards us to transform the innocentand homemade to enchanting and extraordinary. And boy was it ever wondrous.

Over the next three days we wore a path in and out under thewoodpile to our little cozy den at the corner of the fence where we drank tea,we laughed, we told stories, and we talked about Christmas. We lacked fornothing because we had what we needed in abundance.

Looking back, it was a perfect place for us to keep out fromunderfoot in the house. We were so grown up in our minds, we sat in wonder ofthe freedom of that hideaway and the promise of Christmas. This is one of many happyrecollections of childhood that shaped me and will stay with me forever in acocoon of warm memories. Now I want to have a cup of tea in that magical place behindthe woodpile.