10 Hacks for Solitude

I’ve come across this scenario in online memes numerous times…

You come home, make some tea, sit down in your armchair, and all around, there’s silence.

 Decide for yourself whether that’s loneliness or freedom.

Solitude and loneliness are alike only in that they result in a lack of company. Solitude is a choice to be alone for a prescribed time (or, all the time), a conscious decision to be free from the presence of others. Loneliness is an affliction, not a choice—a state where a person is isolated and disconnected from others against his or her will.

Like most humans, I enjoy time spent with friends and family. But as I get older, I realize more and more acutely that I have always been one of those people who not only wants “alone time,” but needs it in order to maintain calm, clarity and focus. I wonder sometimes, if I were alone for days on end, how much time would have to pass for me to cross that boundary between solitude and loneliness? I can’t remember a time when I’ve had even 24 hours of solitude, but I’d wager I could do it for at least a couple of weeks.

Over three decades of life as a working mom of four, “alone time” was a rare commodity, but I did discover some “solitude hacks” that I can share here.

1. Bath Time

In my mind, solitude requires quiet, uninterrupted thought. Frothy bubbles and luminous candlelight cannot overcome the sound of small fists pounding the bathroom door or muffled shouts of “MOM!” Leave the kids under the supervision of an adult for half an hour, with instructions for everyone to stay away from the bathroom door. Run your bath and get in, but instead of turning off the tap, leave a small stream of water running. It will sound like a trickling forest brook and drown out all the sounds of your kidlets fighting or pounding around on the floor beneath you.

2. When the Impossible Happens

It’s rare, but it does happen, especially when the kids get older. You realize that you are alone in the house. Guard and protect this incredible opportunity with every fibre of your being. Do NOT leave the house for any errand, grocery run, or mission of exercise. Those are things you can do when people are home. Turn on Air Supply and sing along loudly. Play the “Moonlight Sonata” on your piano without regard for the complaints of the horrific depression your family members claim when you play it in their presence. Sit on the couch and have a complete thought. Or have no thoughts. This is your Heaven on Earth, even if only for a brief time. Do not sacrifice it under any circumstances. Stay. Where. You. Are.

3. You Thought Cars Were for Driving

Your car is your oasis. Get in it and inform others of your intentions as necessary. You actually are going to get groceries or pick up a prescription or drop off your library books. No one needs to know about the extra 15-20 minutes you’ll be tacking on to your errand as you sit in the park, sipping your take-out hot beverage while the watching the snow/autumn leaves/blossoms fall. You can probably get in a chapter of your book while you’re at it. Or sneak in a power nap.

4. Solitary Supper

I’m retired now, but I used to call going home after work “the Second Shift.” After a long and hectic day of earning a paycheck, there’s nothing like meal prep, a couple loads of laundry, homework help and a despondent run-through with the vacuum cleaner to end off your day. Tip: Find a day out of a month where you can get out of work a little early. Sometimes, between finishing work and your arrival home or at the daycare to pick up the kids, there is a little “grey” area. DO NOT WASTE YOUR GREY AREA. Go to a little bistro or even a fast-food restaurant and have a quick, quiet dinner alone. Experience the ecstasy of someone bringing you something hot and delicious and breathe a sigh of relief when they take your dirty dishes away. Those dishes are not your concern. When you get home, make the kids chicken fingers or scrambled eggs or mac and cheese. They won’t even notice that you’re not eating anything.

5. Lunch Break

I used to enjoy heading into the staff room for lunch. I worked with some great people and had some wonderful conversations over lunch. Some of the biggest belly laughs of my entire life happened to me in the staff room. But…keep in mind, there is no hard and fast rule that you MUST eat in the staff room 100% of the time. Get in your car and head somewhere nearby, somewhere quiet. Find a bench. Or just stay in your car in the parking lot. The specifics don’t matter. Sit in the quiet for half an hour, gather your wits and calm down. Meditate, read, eat your sandwich or your salad. Set your phone alarm in case you doze off. This can happen.

6. Do the “Laundry”

We have a main floor laundry room. It has a door that shuts. Years ago, I used that room to write a little series I called “Laundry Room Reflections” while my kids were watching television with their dad. They all thought I was labouring over the laundry. If your laundry room has a door that shuts, you are golden. Go in there and start the washer or the dryer. Use legitimately dirty clothes if they are available. In my case, legitimately dirty clothes were always available. Bang around a bit if you must. Sound busy. Sit on the floor with your book or your notepad or your device. Open and shut the dryer door periodically. Your trusty appliances will hum and spin loudly enough to fool them all and will have the same effect as the tap left on in the bathtub (see #1).

7. Walk, Walk, Walk

I have never regretted taking a walk. I’ve never come home after a walk and thought, “Sheesh, that was a big mistake. I never should’ve done that.” A walk is always a good thing. It pays off in every way imaginable. And it’s a sure-fire way to get some solitude, unless the dog begs to come along. She will. This is guaranteed. But, it’s okay to say no to the dog. Just say no to the dog. You can take her out later, or get somebody else to do it. And don’t let inclement weather stop you. Solitude with a parka hood over your head is lovely. Solitude under an umbrella is lovely. Summer heat is not so lovely. Take your summer solitude walks at sunrise or sunset. Heat exhaustion is too high a price to pay for solitude.

8. Get a Room

Stay overnight alone in a hotel room or a cute little B&B. It doesn’t have to be a day’s drive away to a luxury suite to be an escape. It could be a comfortable, economic spot in the same town or city where you live. Spend a quiet night with a book or a movie, get some uninterrupted sleep. Bring your favourite snacks and a bottle of wine. Take a shower with the door open. Mess up the bed and use all the towels. Have a slumber party with yourself. Don’t check out until the last minute.

9. Ditch the Guilt

This should actually be the first hack. It’s the necessary prerequisite to finding solitude. You don’t have to feel guilty about wanting time to yourself. You cannot be all things to all people all the time. Your sanity matters. It is priority. Other people are as busy as you are and may not notice what you need. Take responsibility for giving yourself what you need. You probably aren’t going to have months alone to wander around and wax philosophical at Walden Pond, but you sure as fire can grab a few hours of solitude here and there. You deserve it, and your family deserves a wife/husband/parent figure who isn’t half a step away from raving lunacy.

10. When All Else Fails

If you can’t find or steal the time for some solitude, if your life is too crammed with work, commitments, appointments, challenges and expectations, then ask. Ask for the time alone that you need. Trade, barter, sacrifice, bargain for it if you must. Explain that prioritizing your need for solitude is a better alternative to burnout, blow-ups, and anti-depressants.

 Being solitary is being alone well: being alone luxuriously immersed in doings of your own choice, aware of the fullness of your won presence rather than of the absence of others. Because solitude is an achievement.                           Alice Koller

 

If you would like to read more by me, I hope you will check out my book Corners scheduled for release in March, 2018.

What About the Books?

For the last two years of my teaching career before I retired, I was a Kindergarten teacher. Ironically, teaching Kindergarten was how I began as a teacher, back in the 80’s.

I hadn’t asked for the change when I was placed back in Kindergarten. I was going off on a sabbatical (to write) in 2013 and was told by my principal that upon my return, I would be teaching Kindergarten.

At that time, I was the Teacher-Librarian in the school and I’d been in that spot for several years. I had a passion for the book angle of the job. The technology aspect was more of a challenge. My principal explained that the person he had in mind to replace me had “more of a heart for the technology piece.”

The “technology piece” was a fast-growing aspect of the job–so, fair enough. Library Science has gone well beyond the realm of the Dewey Decimal System, book clubs, purchasing and weeding. But, my heart was in the shelves. I took such good care of that collection. My greatest joy of the school year was using the money that the Parent Volunteer Association gave me for the library to buy new books. I got the students involved and they put their wish lists in a suggestion box. I also enjoyed running the OLA reading programs where kids got to vote for their favourite books from a selected ten, doing read-alouds before classroom book exchanges, and helping the students connect with the perfect book. I love books. I wanted that to be contagious. Literacy is intrinsically important to a child’s developing mind.

Books are taking a back seat to notebook computers, smart boards, Makerspace labs, and myriad other aspects of technology that are seeping into schools. I acknowledge that keeping up with technology is an integral aspect of students’ educations and that it is a great enhancement to their learning. They need these skills for their lives beyond school. I just lament the fact that books have had to be sacrificed on the altar of technology.  I wish more space could be left for words on paper. Books change lives. Isn’t there room for both?

Any way, I thoroughly enjoyed my two years back in Kindergarten. It was like coming full-circle. Changes in assignment are common for teachers, and although we are not always thrilled with these decisions, we roll with them and try to make the best of it. I was proud of what I’d done in the library. I’d even had a say in its design when the school underwent a massive renovation. The new library was located in the former gym, and it was (still is) beautiful–huge windows looking out over a field to the woods, a gorgeous curving bookcase to house the picture book collection, lots of space for collaboration and display.  Still, I felt a twinge of regret from time to time, a feeling like I had let the library and the kids down. For the most part, I didn’t take my eviction too personally, but these things we are not supposed to take too personally are sometimes taken personally in spite of all the “not supposed to’s.”

The other day, I got this postcard. At first glance, it simply looks like an old family photograph–which is exactly (and beautifully) what it is. It is a picture of the Frank family, taken before Hitler’s Nazis stormed the secret annex in Amsterdam and sent these four Dutch Jews to concentration camps. Otto Frank would be the only survivor in this photograph after the war. Anne, her sister Margot, and their mother Edith died in the camps.

Some years back when I was working in the library, I had recommended “The Diary of Anne Frank” to a student. This same student had visited Anne Frank House recently on a trip to Amsterdam and had picked up this powerful photograph/postcard for me.

I just simply wanted to take the chance to thank you for back in elementary school when you recommended “The Diary of Anne Frank” to me. I’m not quite sure how many times I read it. Being able to experience it and see it was amazing. I wouldn’t have found my love for it without you. Thanks again.

I am so encouraged. Long live the power of stories and books! There’s hope after all. Use the Makerspace, the Chromebooks, the green screens, and the smart boards in your libraries, but don’t forget to check a book out before you leave.

If you would like to read more by me, I hope you will check out my book Corners scheduled for release in March, 2018.

It Can Happen to Anyone

Has anyone noticed an increase in headlines about babies dying in hot cars lately? I don’t recall a summer where I’ve seen so many posts about this on social media.

Just thinking about it makes me sick. Your infant dies a terrible death. It’s your fault. And all because of a terrible mistake.

People are cruel and people are quick to judge. What kind of idiot? Throw them in jail. Make them sit in a hot car for seven hours and see how they like it. I would never forget my baby in the car!

I had my three girls in the 80’s and they were quite close together in age. Those were busy times. Back in those days, we used to have those baby walkers on wheels. They don’t make them any more, and for good reason. But with three young children in the house, the walker was a handy commodity. I’d make sure the baby gate was up and put some toys and Cheerios on the tray and the baby would be entertained, rolling around and gumming Cheerios while I dealt with the other two.

We lived in a split level and spent a lot of time in the lower level where the family room was. One day, I installed a baby gate down there, thinking I would bring the walker down when the other kids were watching TV. There was one more level below where the furnace and laundry rooms were and I didn’t want the baby toppling down there. I got the gate up and fastened and after we all spent a few hours down in the family room, I carried the walker back upstairs and put the baby in it as it was time to start supper.

Shortly after I got busy in the kitchen, there was this horrible sound of the walker bouncing down the stairs.

In my mind, I had fastened the gate. My brain was some how thinking “the gate,” not “two gates.” My auto pilot was on and my memory hadn’t accommodated for the additional gate. According to an article I read recently, it’s a brain thing–the ganglia is involved as well as the hippocampus and the pre-frontal cortex–and a lot of other scientific biological jargon-mixed processes and terms that don’t mix well with stress, sleep deprivation and multi-tasking.

The walker was on its side at the bottom of the stairs. I hurled myself down there. Thank God, it was a miracle. The baby was completely unharmed. Not a mark on her. I don’t think she even cried.

I think about that accident whenever I see these headlines about babies left in cars. I understand how it happens. It has nothing to do with negligence or stupidity. It has to do with the way the brain processes things. According to the article, it happens to men and women, rich or poor, professional or blue-collar. And these parents go through absolute hell. Unimaginable hell.

I was lucky in my case. My baby could’ve broken her neck or suffered brain damage or even died. I made a mistake and I don’t know why I was spared the agony of the consequences and why others were not.

What I do know is, I have nothing but compassion for these people who lose their children in this awful way and they will get no condemnation from this corner. There is no amount of trolls with cruel comments that could increase the pain these parents are already experiencing. It’s the worst thing there is.

That walker incident was almost thirty years ago and the memory still jerks me awake from time to time.

Here’s a link to the article. It’s worth a read.

https://www.washingtonpost.com/lifestyle/magazine/fatal-distraction-forgetting-a-child-in-thebackseat-of-a-car-is-a-horrifying-mistake-is-it-a-crime/2014/06/16/8ae0fe3a-f580-11e3-a3a5-42be35962a52_story.html?utm_term=.39d0f842f28d

If you would like to read more by me, I hope you will check out my book Corners scheduled for release in March, 2018.

 

Sunday Morning, Late July

I’m starting to see those “can’t wait for autumn” memes on social media. Can I just say, NO.

Autumn in Ontario is a beautiful season. I like the pumpkin spice things as much as the next girl. And yes, “October is my favourite colour.” I don’t disagree with the fact that autumn is a wonderful time of the year. In fact, it is spectacular, and probably my favourite season.

But right now, it’s SUMMER. And, may I add, it’s not even August yet. Can we just stay here in July? You know, that month we live for from November to April? The month we dream of as we stare out our windows during a February blizzard, suffering from Vitamin D deprivation?  Can I at least look forward to the first ripe tomato before I have to wax sentimental about the sound of leaves crunching under my feet?

There is still so much of summer left…beach days and reading under a tree. Peach iced tea and picnics. Sunsets and throwing dinner on the barbecue. Bike rides and wild flowers and cottage time. Mom’s garden and a glass of wine.

It seems that we are always set up to look forward to something. We certainly are encouraged well in advance of events and holidays to anticipate things, thanks to advertising and the media. I find it hard enough to stay in the moment, without all that pressure.

Maybe, it’s the former teacher in me that rankles a bit when it comes to the subject of fall. For thirty-one years, fall meant a return to school. I liked my job, but the approach of September always provoked some panic and anxiety in me. The beginning of July brought some euphoric calm after the hectic and exhausting June craziness at school. A few weeks of sleeping in, getting things organized around the house, and doing some writing was the usual beginning of my summer routine. Once it was the middle of July, I would wander over to the school for a few hours during the day and get some work done, let thoughts of school into my head and then let those thoughts drift away again. In the last days of July, the first twinges of “oh-oh, almost August” began. Then I would console myself. Still half a summer left! Lots of time! Middle of August. Yikes, things are really winding down here...and I would start to cram things in, things I hadn’t done yet, Frantic writing sessions and book-reading, getting meals into the freezer. The end of August. Resignation, and that pulling myself up by the bootstraps thing I used to do, all the placating self-talk. It’ll be okay. It’s just the change that’s hard. You’ll get back into a routine again. You like your job, remember?

I did like my job, but teaching didn’t come naturally to me, as it did to so many of my talented colleagues. It wasn’t going back to school that I dreaded, but the exhaustion that came from the effort of trying to do a good job and to stay on top of everything at home. I don’t miss the pressure.

Teachers sometimes refer to the month of August as “one long Sunday night.” I don’t miss that, either. I don’t miss the constant having to think ahead, the “long-range plans” framework of life that I used to live.

Which brings me back to now. A beautiful, breezy warm day near the end of July.  I’m so glad to be here!

 

If you would like to read more by me, I hope you will check out my book Corners scheduled for release in March, 2018.

 

A Simple Review of “Dunkirk”

I love a good movie as much as a good book. Sadly, this summer has been sorely lacking when it comes to good movies. The highly anticipated Dunkirk was released in theatres a few days ago, and I hoped that it would put an end to my personal dry spell.

 

The history of war is complicated, and I’m not prepared to take a course in WWII at this moment. Simplistically, as a weak attempt on my part at a bit of background, France and England were at war with Germany after the invasion of Poland. In the spring of 1940, the Germans used an unanticipated approach as they advanced into France, and 400,000 French and English troops found themselves trapped on the beach just beyond the town of Dunkirk (in France, close to the Belgium border), with a lack of available ships to get them across the English Channel to safety. Many of the troops who managed to get on boats were thwarted in their efforts to escape by the German Luftwaffe and U-boat torpedoes. Incredibly, civilians in England offered their boats (many actually getting in and sailing across the Channel themselves) to rescue the stranded men, who were lined up in desperation on the beach.

The reviews have been highly favourable for director Christopher Nolan’s WWII movie, although David Cox of the Guardian had plenty of disappointment to express, saying the movie was “bloodless, boring and empty.” He complained that Nolan neglected to provide historical context and background information of the evacuation, nor did Nolan acknowledge the stories of heroism that actually took place. Cox goes on to express that Nolan didn’t provide any background for his characters, nor did he engage them in much dialogue with each other, which he felt resulted in a disconnect between the audience and the characters. He lamented the lack of CGI effects, and the minimalist approach to the use of warships and planes. He also included a dig on the absence of female characters and said that the few women that did appear were in stereotypical roles. He even complained that the lack of blood and guts defeated the whole “war is hell” premise of the movie.

I have to acknowledge that Dunkirk wasn’t the typical WWII movie (and I’ve seen a lot of them). If I am comparing this movie to other epic war films out there, I can concede somewhat to Cox’s criticism.

The thing is, I’m not comparing this movie to Saving Private Ryan or Hacksaw Ridge or any other war movie. Dunkirk is nothing like those epic sagas, at least not in David Cox’s tick-off-the-box ways. What I saw last night was the equivalent of being on the Dunkirk ride (if there was one) at Universal Studios. It was almost like a virtual reality experience. I felt like I was on that beach, on those boats, in those planes (because the movie shows the perspective of all three of those angles). I’m not sure what Nolan’s goal was, but the end game for me was experiencing the desperation of those men, and the determination to survive while all odds were against them. A grand story line threaded through wasn’t needed. Dunkirk was its own story. The characters didn’t need a lot of carefully worded dialogue. Their faces and their actions told their stories. The simple visual of all those unarmed ferries, steamers, yachts, and fishing boats arriving at Dunkirk was story enough for me.

I give this movie all the stars.

 

If you would like to read more by me, I hope you will check out my book Corners scheduled for release in March, 2018.

It’s Happening

Today, a life-long ambition was realized with the arrival of a large yellow envelope. Inside was a review copy of my first published novel. There they were, all my words, printed across pages bound within a glossy cover. Corners was written at the top, Corrina Austin along the bottom.

That’s my name. On a book.

It only took me 47 years. I’ve been writing ( and taking writing seriously) since I was eight years old.

I was twelve when I sent my first attempt at a “novel” out. My aunt had a typewriter and bless her heart, she hammered out the whole manuscript for me, glued in my pencil crayon illustrations, and made a nice cover cut out of a floral box to hold the pages. It was called “Ginger, the Appaloosa Horse.” I still have it stashed away somewhere. This was long before the emergence of the Internet, and the only avenue I could determine as to where to send a manuscript was to refer to the first pages of the books in my little collection. Publishing companies sometimes included mailing addresses under their logos. I sent “Ginger” off to the first company I could find an address for. I think it was Thomas Nelson and Sons. I raced home from school every day for months in anticipation of their response. Finally, the letter arrived. Heart in my throat, I tore open the envelope, received the standard rejection form, and felt the first heart-dropping pang of rejection.

I think now, if I had been an editor working for that big New York publishing house, I might have looked down at those glued-in horse drawings and found a minute to pen a few encouraging words to a kid who’d written a book-length manuscript when she was only twelve years old.

Well, that would make a good story, wouldn’t it? Not a very realistic one.

With each rejection, it got easier, but I often wondered why I kept trying, especially before “Submittable” and other electronic options. It was expensive to submit by mail. Novel-length submissions are heavy. Companies wanted return postage included for their responses. I often sent my manuscripts out in batches, and that cost me a hunk of change. Now, I will not submit to the odd company that still expects manuscripts through the mail. Email is our friend, and it saves trees. Once submitting electronically became an option, I renewed my commitment to send my stuff out. What did I have to lose? Rejections continued to come in steadily via a ding in the inbox. I’d give myself a shake and start writing another novel. This has been the pattern for years. Until finally, persistence (or stubbornness) paid off.

Dancing Lemur, my publisher, sent me a request today to complete a blog interview for a reviewer of theirs. I worked on the interview all afternoon. The questions got me thinking about writing, and what it has meant to me all these years. I’ll include a few of my responses here.

When did you know you wanted to be a writer?

I was around eight years old when I knew I was a writer. I was playing outside in my yard and climbed into the low branches of the willow tree. It occurred to me that I was sitting “in the willow’s lap.” It was such a cool thought that I decided to write it down and make a poem out of it. It was like opening a floodgate. I wrote constantly, after that. I would write on gummed paper pads, the backs of old calendars, in the left-over pages of used notebooks. I was writing novels by the time I was twelve. I would go to the homework room at school during recess and write instead of going outside to play.

Can you share your journey to becoming a published author?

Strangely enough, I received an acceptance for a children’s picture book when I was eighteen years old–the very first press I’d submitted it to. I wrote the story as part of a project I was working on in a Canadian Literature course I was taking in high school. I even received an advance for that book. Unfortunately, the press went under before they could publish my book. The title was “Marbles, Puppy Tails, Nose Trees and Bubbles.” I don’t have the original manuscript any more.

After that sad experience, I was doomed to decades of rejection. I wish I had kept track of all the rejection letters and emails I have received from publishing companies, or at least, kept a running count. There were several times where my hopes were lifted, after learning my work had made it to editorial review. I heartily appreciated the editors who found time for some feedback in those “we thought your book had merit, but we will have to take a pass” responses. I learned that my writing was often perceived as strong and engaging, just not “the right fit” in most cases. If not for those comments, I might have come to believe that my writing skills fell short of published author material, and I would likely have given up. I did persist and had some short stories and articles published and I won a short story contest in my community. I received two grants from the Ontario Arts Council for a novel in progress. My job in the school library made it possible for me to advance my resume as a book reviewer for School Library Journal. These small successes helped to preserve my hope and my drive to push on and publish a novel. I took a sabbatical for one year when I was teaching, and devoted my days to writing and submitting. “Corners” was born out of that year off. Once the final draft was complete, I started shooting it off regularly to different publishers. It took a few years to find success with that particular manuscript and I was delighted to receive an offer from Dancing Lemur Press. I have several other manuscripts I’m still trying to find homes for.

What do you find to be the biggest challenge, as an author?

Researching and submitting to presses is tedious work. I believe it is a special talent, and one I unfortunately do not possess. Researching and submitting are crucial aspects of writing, and the challenge is that every press has different requirements and expectations for author submissions. For me, the actual writing is the easy part. If I were rich, I would hire a research assistant to take care of queries and submissions.

Time management is also challenging. It is so easy for a day to be eaten up before I remember that I haven’t found time to write. Self-discipline, time management, and goal-setting are things that I am working on.

What do you find most rewarding as an author?

I think the whole appeal of writing is to make connections with others on a level that can’t happen in “regular” conversations. Inspiring people to make contact with memories they otherwise would have forgotten, opening doors to new perspectives, engaging emotions…all of those things bring great satisfaction to me.
 

If you would like to read more by me, I hope you will check out my book Corners scheduled for release in March, 2018.

 

The Blessing of Now

Last night, I dropped in at my parents’ place, hoping to check in with my mom. My dad has been admitted to the hospital for the second time in the past week. Something isn’t right with him. Normally an active 80-year-old fellow, busy with golf and “scrapping” and church activities, my dad has been doing life in his chair for the past few weeks. Some time spent hydrating with an IV in his arm during his first hospital stay seemed to help a bit, but once he was back home, he couldn’t seem to find his energy again. He looked tired and drawn. He tried to be cheerful, but I could tell that he wasn’t himself. Mom took him back to the ER a few days ago and they admitted him again. He isn’t in an emergency situation, but it’s concerning.

When I got to my parents’ house last night, no one was there as Mom was visiting Dad at the hospital. I let myself in, planning to wait for her for a few minutes.

My parents still live in the same house that we moved into when I was eight years old. It’s a cozy, many-times-over renovated little house, and when you walk in there, you will find yourself in a typical Dutch home…lace on the end and coffee tables and at the windows, family photographs everywhere, ceramic do-dads, orchids on the windowsills, painted china dishes filled with candy, fancy cloths adorning the tables, even occasional Christmas knickknacks that Mom kept out because she thought they were too pretty to put away. Mom had left some music playing in her absence: James Last, 1970’s–mixed tapes she’d made of my grandmother’s music after she passed away.  I realized with a little pang that she’d left the music on so that she wouldn’t have to come home to quiet.

I peeked around the corner into my dad’s little den, saw his chair without him in it, and the television screen blank. There were his snacks on the coffee table, carefully arranged by Mom in their little lidded containers within easy reach. James Last’s version of the “Moonlight Sonata” seeped sadly into all the empty spaces.

I went out the patio door into the garden. There were Mom and Dad’s two chairs, positioned on the little deck my Dad built, sheltered by the enormous wisteria vine. Dad made two little shelves on either end of the deck so they’d have a place to set their drinks while they chatted and watched the birds at the feeder or the fireflies winking in the garden at dusk. There was the perfectly planned little garden that they take such pleasure in gathering their supper vegetables from. Mom’s blackberries are preparing for another epic harvest–the vines are loaded. Her perennials are in spectacular bloom, although I know she would say (as she always does) that the garden isn’t at its best. The rain barrels are full. Dad puts goldfish in them every spring, and goes out to sprinkle a little fish food in there every day. In the fall, he releases the fish into the pond at the golf course.

They’ve built such a lovely nest for themselves and are quite content with each other there. They have been very happy together for the past 56 years.

I feel so grateful to still have both my parents. I have been fortunate. I can still go over there and be “home” with Mom and Dad. There aren’t many people my age who are lucky enough to have that. In recognizing that, though, the facts must be faced. The finality of the quiet house and the permanence of empty chairs are waiting somewhere in the near or distant future. This is the reality for all families. We will not always be together in this world. The empty house reminded me of that last night.

But, it also served as a reminder that we have Now.  Now is the place where my parents (and everyone I love) reside. We are together in this Now, and Dad is hopefully going to be back in his chair in a few days, and then eventually, off to the golf course or to deliver a load of scrap. Mom will harvest her blackberries, and the two of them will sit outside in their garden chairs with their glasses again.

We don’t have forever. But we have Now. It’s the best place to be. I’m going to stay close to it. Everything I care about is right here.

If you would like to read more by me, I hope you will check out my book Corners scheduled for release in March, 2018.

 

 

Jackpot Dog

I was reading a Kijiji ad today, someone looking to re-home a seven-month-old puppy. The man hadn’t wanted a dog, but had agreed to the puppy when his family promised to train it, care for it, clean up after it. He wrote about how his family hadn’t followed through on any of their commitments, and out of fairness to the dog, he wanted to find him a better home. He was very forthright in his description of all the dog’s issues. The puppy chewed through cords. He wasn’t housebroken. He was aggressive at times, due to the fact that he had been banished to the back yard, isolated and ignored for 99% of his life. The puppy hadn’t received any attention whatsoever.

I looked at the picture of this poor creature, sitting forlorn on a couch. The dog was one of those saggy-faced, remorseful-looking breeds, born to look broken-hearted. Still, I sensed that under the saggy countenance, the dog was genuinely sad.

Adopting a dog is an enormous commitment; some might argue, comparable to having a child. I guess with our dog Cobi, we won the lottery. The only real complaint I have is the hair. My husband cleaned out the central vac container this morning and remarked that it was like there was an entire dog in there. (Goldens are famous shedders). Cobi barks when someone comes to the door, but I consider that a good quality. Even when she was a puppy, the only things she ever chewed on were her toys. She can be left alone in the house for hours at a time without getting into anything. She understands pretty much everything we tell her. She never has accidents in the house, aside from the occasional puke on the rug. She loves accompanying me outside to the clothesline and the garden, she adores her walks and her ball-chasing time. Until we are ready to provide these activities, she just lays at our feet and drowses. She knows us by name, and will “find” a family member when asked. If we’ve been away for an hour or two, she openly weeps for joy when we return.

Who knows what kind of dog she’d have turned out to be, had she been shoved in the backyard and ignored all her life? I hope the poor puppy in that ad finds a good home, and that it isn’t too late to turn his bad habits around. It’s a crying shame that some people delude themselves into thinking that a puppy is a toy, something to entertain themselves with and then put away and forget when they grow tired of it. What a pity, both for the dog, and for the people who lose out on the opportunity to learn all the lessons a dog has to teach us.

 

If you would like to read more by me, I hope you will check out my book Corners scheduled for release in March, 2018.

Lunch

There are many serious issues I could be blogging about today, but there is something very pressing at the front of my mind.

Olive Garden.

My daughter told me that there is this “thing” where the mean Internet mocks people who think that the Olive Garden is a “fancy” restaurant. I don’t know about fancy, but sweet mercy, their food is DELICIOUS.

I wish, wish, wish I didn’t love food so much. But since I do, the Olive Garden is my playground.

The sad news…there are very few Olive Gardens in Canada. I heard that they tried to get it going down here, but there were too many problems with getting their product over the border.

Maybe in my case, it’s a good thing I don’t have easy access.

Once in awhile, and I do feel guilty about it…we go across the border to Port Huron, which is just a little over an hour away from where I live. I don’t relish the idea of feeding into the American economy at the expense of Canada’s…but unlimited bread sticks!

The first time I tried the Olive Garden, I was in Flint with the kids some years back. We ordered peach iced tea. It was so good; we drank five or six apiece, and then we all lay tucked up in our hotel room, staring at the ceiling at 2:00 a.m., wondering why none of us could sleep. Finally, one of us had the brains to realize we were hopped up on caffeine from the peach tea. Every time we go to the states, we buy several bottles of the peach Bellini syrup so we can make our favourite drink at home.

We went yesterday, and we’d been out of peach Bellini for several months, so summer just got even better.

I have never had something at the Olive Garden I didn’t like, and if I had, they would have brought me something else. Yesterday, I enjoyed my peach iced tea, one hot, garlicky bread stick (I appreciate the “umlimited” offer, but at that point, I was still considering my hips) and two servings of their delicious salad dressed in signature Italian, sprinkled with freshly grated Parmesan and served on a chilled salad plate. (Okay, even the mean Internet has to agree that a chilled salad plate enters the realm of “fancy.”) I tasted a few of the stuffed mushrooms we ordered for the table (uhhh, yum!). My entree was a build your own pasta. I chose whole-wheat linguine (because, you know, healthy choice) with grilled shrimp (more points for making good choices) and then blew the whole shooting match by choosing Asiago Alfredo sauce rather than the marinara I was going to ask for. Asiago Alfredo just came out of my mouth, against my will. It’s astonishing, how often that happens to me. Our food arrived promptly, drinks were religiously refilled, and fresh bread sticks constantly replenished. My meal came out piping hot, with some additional cheese baked on and garnished with freshly roasted garlic cloves. It was scrumptious.

Good thing for my heart, I could only eat about half of it, and that was the lunch-sized portion.

It broke my heart to leave it there. But we were heading to Wal-Mart and Kohl’s and Barnes and Noble and T.J. Max, and the leftovers would’ve been sitting in the hot car all afternoon.

Am I really blogging about my lunch? It appears I am.

And, hey…how about those minty chocolates they serve you with the bill? That’s a lot fancier than a hard candy in a plastic wrapper, Internet.

 

If you would like to read more by me, I hope you will check out my book Corners scheduled for release in March, 2018.