94 and a quarter

Grandma and Grandad on their anniversary

My grandmother would always say that she would live until she was 94 and a quarter.  When my mom casually mentioned that my uncle was considering throwing a party next year because Grandma would have been 94 and a quarter, it sucked the air out of the room and it took everything to not cry. Grandma was special. She was a funny little woman who loved her many grandchildren. She had a unique ability to connect with children and what seemed like unlimited patience. I adored her. Time stood still when you were around her, she listened, genuinely interested in every banal thing a young kid  has to say. 

My sister, brother and I were fortunate to know our grandparents as young people, they were vibrant, kind and wanted to be in our lives. We saw them often, not the occasional visit where we felt we had to dress up and behave. We could be who we were and Grandma and Granddad reveled in it. They retired to an old school house in Port Elgin and many a summer, Thanksgiving and Christmas were spent there. It was awesome. They were awesome. 

My children will have a similar experience. Ian and I had occasion to move 'home' when our two older children were very young. My mom graciously stepped in to help with the after school care, picking them up from school and then dropping them off at home for me. What began as an obligation, turned into a beautiful friendship that I know they all treasure. Now, it is rarely a quick hand-off at the door, often it is a trip to Grandma's to have some nuggets and see the variety of dogs she has (another story for another day) or it is a trip to Tim Hortons. I have watched this relationship unfold, knowing full well the magic that is being created through benign interactions almost daily. The kids will know their grandparents as people, grandparents who will teach them things, spend time with them. They are lucky. I know.









Bu Banket

Bronwyn with her bu banket.

I am curled up around her, as I try to coax her to bed.  It has been a long day; 11th annual pumpkin carving party, 25 pumpkins to carve, family and food packed in the house and one little girl way over tired. All around her are the things that make little girls so wonderful, a bedroom messy with stuffies, barbies, colouring books and the one thing that means the most to her in the entire world; bu banket. 

It was my first attempt at teaching myself crochet, it isn't really blue, rather a mishmash of wool that I bought when I was learning about tension, different wools and how to join them.  It's rather ugly, misshapen and permanently dirty.  She would not be without it.  We keep an eye out for it, knowing that to hit bedtime without it would mean tears and a protracted bedtime routine that would be painful for everyone. 

Here we are, the nightlight casts soft shadows on the butter walls, and she lies beside me with her bu banket threaded between her fingers.  She moves her fingers in and out of the crochet slowly soothing herself to sleep.  She never had a soother, I guess that this is what the bu banket is.

Her birthday is Monday, and I know that her babyhood is slipping away.  Tonight she needs me, not to read a book, not to help her into her pjs but to just lie there, quietly while she wraps her hands around her bu banket and drifts of to dreamland.

Authentic and Real

Cover of Colour, Moving and Still

I have a few favourite people in my world, lots of crushes (don't get me started about that Hawaii 5-0 dude..) When I fall in love with music, I usually am a fan for life, making a point to see the person in concert any time I can. I have seen Chantal Kreviazuk in concert a few times. She picks some wicked opening acts, I credit her with introducing me to Jorain and my beloved Jason Mraz. When I learned that Chantal was going to visit Ontario Shores, give a talk and play some music, I was so there. I love her music, she touches me, she has seen me through some serious dark days. She spoke about her connection to mental illness; a friend and family member suffering and how their suffering has shaped her life and music. It was touching and human, honest and real. Who amongst us has never been touched by mental illness, whether it be your own or someone you are close to? I suspect we all have.

It was fascinating to hear the reality behind a few of her songs. After she sang for us, she reviewed the song, replayed bits and its meaning.

For me, the death of my son nearly killed me. Therapy and a bit of drugs saved my life. But so did music. Chantal's music. Her album, Colour Moving and Still, helped me to find the sunlight and joy in life. She helped and will never know it. I must have listened to it so many times that if it was not a CD, but a record, surely the groves would have been worn out.

Her message was to remove the stigma of mental illness, blow the doors wide open and be open and honest about the suffering and mental health impacts on family friends and the individual suffering.  For Chantal, music is her outlet, her cathartic process.  I am sure she must realize that her often raw, honest lyrics offer the same cathartic process for her listeners who love her.