Bring on 2012

After reflecting on the past year, I see that where I am today is very different from where I expected to be. Our family is in a very different place than it was at the end of 2010, or I suspect, it’s in the same place it’s been for quite some time. We just didn’t know we were there last year. Sometimes ignorance is bliss.

2011 has been a struggle against anger, a challenge to forgive. I’m not quite there yet. I try very hard but then the objects of my rage, the ones that I strive to forgive, do some other asinine thing and it sets me off. I’ll get over it – strong feeling set their own pace.

Health has been an issue – my husband’s, my grandson’s, my daughters’, my own. Again, those issues work themselves out in their own time. I must say though, that for the first time in my life I feel old, like there are too many things that I have to do and not enough time left to do the things I want to do. I’ve always considered myself adaptable, able to fly by the seat of my pants, but maybe I need a plan. It’s time to seriously start working on the bucket list!

Good things happened in 2011 and I am grateful. Husband survived a pulmonary embolism and is doing well, daughter survived divorce and is doing fine. I didn’t crash on Deerfoot, my dogs are house-trained (almost) and I am grateful for my wonderful family, terrific friends, good neighbours, and a fine community of writing associates and mentors. The roof over my head and the food in my cupboard are more than 99% of the world can imagine. And I am grateful for the smaller things like losing 15 pounds, health care, online library services, Advil, tulips, laughter, mountains, long drives in the country, shopping in the city, email and Facebook, birds, good hair, good music, good theatre, Good Earth, comfortable shoes, chocolate, and much more.

I feel a little guilty as I look back on 2011, like I don’t appreciate the good things enough, but it’s been a rough year for so many reasons. I want to be around to continue to count my blessings and to tenaciously work on the health and anger issues. I’ve been pushed to the brink this past year, bitten my tongue until it bleeds and been more patient than I ever thought I could be. Those are good things – I’ve learned that the when you reach the brink, the brink moves; that biting your tongue is probably the lesser of two evils, and; patience, combined with counting to ten and taking a few deep breaths, lowers blood pressure.

Cliché as it sounds, I want to dance at my grandchildren’s weddings. I don’t make a written list of resolutions but what better time is there to take stock of assets and liabilities than at the beginning of a new year.  Some things will change and some won’t. I need to write more and worry less, to take a vacation, to speak my mind and to say no more often, to eat healthier and to go to bed earlier, to take better care of myself, to reconnect with friends. I need to find a way to lend my heart without giving away my soul and my wish is that as I grow older, I will be able to handle the associated crap with grace, dignity and humour.

Bring on 2012. I am ready, but no more blindsiding please.

Peace On Earth, Good Will to Man

            My husband, three children and I were living in a neighbourhood which consisted of single-family homes, subsidized housing and low-rental apartments. Our eight year old son was one of six Caucasian children in his class and the friends he brought home from school had names we couldn't pronounce and customs we didn't understand. I welcomed them, feeling that a dose of "typical Canadian family" would turn them into good and grateful citizens. I prided myself on my open-mindedness, lack of prejudice, and determination that there would be no discrimination in my midst. I was a pious person in 1978, in December, just before Christmas, when my value system was rearranged by one small Lebanese girl.

            Her name was Ikrim. She and her mother were refugees who had been given sanctuary in Canada and a place to live in the low-rental housing project a couple of blocks from our home.  She was bossy, ordering the other children at school in her broken English, and she was loud, demanding to be first at each activity, first to choose the story and especially, first in the snack line. The other children were intimidated by her boldness and they included her in their play grudgingly.

            As Christmas approached, I was busy with holiday preparations and wondered, as usual, if the true meaning of Christmas could be found in the midst of all the advertising and materialism that surrounded the season. Our family recognized the plight of others by contributing to the usual charities like the food bank, Christmas seal fund, and the Salvation Army bell-ringers in the malls. Like almost everyone we knew, we took our own comfort for granted.

            One day, before Christmas break began, a group of young children, mine included, were playing outside. I quickly recognized Ikrim in the group as she bossed and shoved the others until she got her way. I watched the group from the window for awhile, then returned to the kitchen. Soon though, my son was at the door, Ikrim close behind him.  Her dark face peered over his shoulder as she bobbed and pushed, determined to come inside. 

            "Mom," my boy said, "Ikrim wants to see our baby. She wants to see our tree and she says you have to put the lights on. And she wants a candy cane."

            I plugged in the tree lights as the little girl took off her boots in the entranceway. Our twelve-week-old daughter slept serenely in her baby seat near the tree, now bathed in the glow of twinkling Christmas lights. Nearby, the crèche decorated the mantle. My living room was a display of Christmas peace and good will.

Ikrim crept around the corner and stared at the tree, the sparkle of lights reflecting in her dark eyes and a true look of Christmas wonder spreading across her face. I offered her a candy cane and she took it shyly for once, without speaking. She gazed in awe at the lights, the ornaments and the tinsel, and then her eyes wandered around the room and came to rest on my sleeping daughter. She tiptoed quietly toward the baby, her finger across her lips, telling herself to “hush” as she’d obviously been taught. Her look of rapt enchantment travelled from the sleeping baby to the fireplace mantle as her eyes wandered from one tiny figurine to another and I thought briefly that this child had been truly blessed by the Christmas spirit. 

Briefly, because too soon, her eyes lifted and she stared at the wall above the fireplace where my husband's two hunting rifles hung in a gun rack. Her expression changed.  Childish wonderment was instantly replaced with terror. In my midst, the story written across her face transformed her from an innocent child into an ageless woman who had experienced more of life's horrors in her brief years than I could imagine in a lifetime. Then she fled, shoving her feet into her boots and dropping her candy cane as she rushed through the door. 

            After that day, Ikrim still played with the children. I now recognized her unruly behaviour as a manifestation of her instinct to survive. Her boldness protected her from being hurt by the other children and her constant demands were her way of ensuring she wouldn’t hungry or insignificant again. Ikrim moved away shortly after that Christmas and she never came inside my house again. She never knew that after she left, the rifles were taken down and eventually sold. They were never displayed in our home again.

originally published in the Calgary Herald, 24.12.1998

Outsourcing

So last night we wanted to order Swiss Chalet for dinner. There is a Swiss Chalet about a mile from where I live so picking up the order wasn’t a problem. However, I wanted to know if I had to dress for the occasion or if I could go sans makeup and in sweat pants and stained tee shirt so I called to ask if they had a drive-thru window. They don’t.

I can easily put on some blush, jeans and a jacket so I say I would like to place my order. No, no, the voice on the phone from so very close replies. You need to use our call centre number. I am talking to the outlet I can reach in five minutes. If I climbed up on my roof, I might even be able to wave to the lady on the phone.

But she insists she can’t take my order so I hang up and call the number on the website. A cheery voice answers, asks my phone number and postal code and slowly we work through my order. I don’t know if I have a speech impediment or what, but ordering anything on the phone is, in almost every instance, a long, drawn out and frustrating experience. (Have I written about Alberta Treasury Branches yet? If not, I’m pretty sure I will.)

Anyway, back to dinner. Finally we have confirmed and reconfirmed my order. The guy asks where area code 403 is and I tell him where I am. He asks how the weather is?

“Cold,” I say, “Where are you?”

“Toronto,” he says. “It’s cold here too. It’s cold everywhere?”

He should know. People from Vancouver to St. John’s are placing their dinner orders through a telephone service in Toronto so they can pick them up a few blocks from their homes.

“Your order will be ready in 18 minutes. Have a nice evening, goodbye,” the voice on the phone says.

I really don’t trust this process but when I arrive at Swiss Chalet, there is my order, packaged up and ready to go. I still think there something weird about this?