The emotional roller coaster of airports

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We drove Mom to the airport on the weekend and she took a midnight flight home.

Sigh. 

She snagged a nasty virus when she was here and you know how it is – when you're under the weather, there's no place you'd rather be than in your own bed. So I will miss her and I wish she had of stayed longer but if there's one thing I've learned over the years is there's no point trying to talk people into doing something they don't want to do.

It was freezing Saturday night. I mean really freezing. With windchill, the temperature was -44C (which is -47 F). It was so cold that my coat froze and crinkled the moment I stepped out of the Jeep.

Dave said his good-byes at the curb and waited in the vehicle while I went with Mom to get her boarding pass and check her luggage. Then I waited to make sure she got through security without getting arrested. (Little old ladies are the worst, I hear – they're the ones most likely to have balloons full of heroin up their bums.)

The line was quite long and I must have waited for 20 minutes or more. Every once in a while she'd turn around and I'd wave and she'd wave and I'd make some kind of stupid face, while other "waiters" around me did the same thing with their travelling loved ones.

All around me people were saying good-bye. Christmas vacation was over and there were a lot of students going back to school. A family next to me was having a hard time letting their daughter go, especially the father.

"I'm sorry I was grumpy," he said. "I'm so sorry."

I peeked to my left and saw his middle-aged and bespectacled face buried in her shoulder, tears pouring down his ruddy cheeks.

"It's OK, Dad, it's OK. I love you," she said, which made him cry harder.

"I love you, too," he sobbed.  "I'm going to miss you so much."

My heart, already aching by my own mother's imminent departure, absolutely melted and my eyes welled up with snotiferous ugly tears. (Yeah that's a word.)

The airport is a vast cavern of opposite and deep emotion.

There's the arrivals gate, which you should go to if you need a pick-me-up. The tears shed here are made of distilled happiness as family, friends and lovers are reunited in arms flung open in joy. There are exceptions, of course – the tired business traveller, or the lonely singleton who hurries by the happy families with eyes fixed studiously on the floor. But, for the most part, especially during the holidays, the arrivals gate is the best place on earth to find actual happy people and be infected by the contagion of their brilliant smiles.

Then there's departures, where the same people, weeks later, are saying good-bye to the individuals they love the most. The people walking away from here are openly crying, or trying desperately to hold back their tears.

When my mom finally got through security, she waved one last time, then disappeared into the crowd.

I turned away and gave in to suffocating emotion.

Happy December 6th!

Book me a room at the home, Mabel, I'm coming in.

I have no brain left. I've said that before, but I was lying then because obviously I had a little bitty bit of brain left. Now? No brain.

The sixth anniversary of my father's death was approaching. Now, as any of you who have lost a parent knows, this is a tricky bit of business. You want to call the living parent and offer moral support and comfort on a yucky day. But what do you say? "Happy anniversary of Dad's Death?" There's no Hallmark card for that.

The other thing is, I can never remember the actual date of Dad's death. After much brain prodding and memorizing, I can now remember he died in December 2006. But did he die on the 6th? Or the 9th?

"When did my dad die?" I ask my husband – every single year.

"You ask me this every single year," he replies, every single year.

"I know, I'm an idiot. But please tell me. I'll remember this time."

Dave sighs ... every single year he sighs just like that ... and tells me he died December 6th.

Yay! Thanks Dave! I burn Dec. 6 into my beleaguered brain and swear to the great gods of merciful memory that I WILL REMEMBER next year.

When Dec. 6 rolled around I phoned my Mom, who sounded perky.

"How are you doing?" I asked in a sombre, I-am-worried-about-you tone.

"Pretty good," she said. "My leg is really bothering me but other than that I'm fine. How are you?"

"Oh good," I said, brushing off her question. "But really, Mom, how ARE you?"

There was a pause, then she said, "I'm fine, Cathy. Why? What's up?"

I got all awkward and didn't know what to say so I mumbled, "Well, it's, um, Dec. 6 and I thought I should see how you are."

There was an even longer pause, then Mom started laughing. "He died Dec. 9! Not Dec. 6. You do this EVERY SINGLE YEAR!"

Then it was OK. We laughed like looney tunes. The awkwardness of not knowing how to mark a terrible anniversary dissipated.

"I'll phone you on Dec. 9," I said, just before I hung up.

"Oh, you don't have to do that," Mom said. "It's fine."

But I did. I called her last night and, as soon as she answered the phone I said, "It's Dec. 9," and she laughed, real unabashed laughter, all over again.

I think I might have to do this again next year – in fact, every single year from now on. Because if it can make my mother laugh on one of the saddest days on the calendar, well, there's no need for a card from Hallmark, is there?

***

Speaking of brain-dead, I had forgotten that today was a special day for everyone's favourite Ninja blogger, Alex Cavanaugh. If you'd like to drop by his blog and wish him well and thank him for being such a bright spot in the universe, do so here.

Alex is one of the most popular and generous bloggers I've ever come across and it's absolutely no wonder that everyone loves him so much.

On this special day I would love to say that the world is a better place because of you, dear, sweet Alex. I wish you nothing but all the very best, on this day and all the ones to come.

(Is there a Hallmark card for Alex's Special Day?)

Ten Things I Want To Thank My Mother For On The Occasion Of Her 75th Birthday

Mom and Dad - aren't they gorgeous?

My mom's 75th birthday is today. (How is that possible?)

It's a milestone birthday and richly deserving of some kind of official recognition on a scale equal with the Queen's Jubilee, although I suspect Paul McCartney and Elton John won't be serenading my dear mother while she imbibes in barbecued hot dogs and birthday cake. Thus having no celebrity performances or parades in the plan, the least I can do is present Ten Things I Want To Thank My Mother For On The Occasion Of Her 75th Birthday:

1. Thanks for having beautiful dark hair and big brown eyes and tremendous dimples and passing those gorgeous things my way.

2. Thanks for your kindness and generosity, your big heart, your all-round niceness. You have always been, and will always be, a lady in the old-fashioned and true sense of the word. Except when you give bad drivers the finger. Or when you perfectly hork your gum out of the window of a moving car which, by the way, is a skill I admire and try to emulate whenever possible. You look like you would never say shit even if your mouth was full of it, except when you do say shit. Which you almost never do. Mostly your swear word of choice is "asshole" which usually accompanies giving bad drivers the finger.

Family portrait taken in Midland, mid 1960s. That's me with my teddy bear.
My little sister, Liz, wasn't born yet.

3. Thank you for busting your middle finger and having it wrapped in a cast in the up position for a month. It wouldn't have been nearly as funny if you had broken your index finger or your baby finger. I never grew tired of seeing you wave that stiff bandaged gauze covered middle digit around. Thank you for being funny.

4. Thank you for having that dream about the giant squirrel chasing you up a telephone pole. When did you have that dream... back in the 1960s? See? A dream that's almost 50 years old, a dream that wasn't even my own, and I still think of it. You probably forget it entirely but I remember we were sitting in your bedroom in Midland, that big bedroom in that big old house, and we were talking about bad dreams  and you said the scariest dream you ever had was about a giant squirrel chasing you up a telephone pole. It was funny, this dream of a giant squirrel, and I still think it's so cute that your scariest dream was about a plus-sized squirrel. We were all so young then. I was just a little kid, maybe five or six. You were in your 20s. A girl, really. You always seemed so beautiful to me. Even in that ratty old pink housecoat, the one with the black buttons. Even when you had curlers in your hair. I loved those conversations at bedtime. You were the best mother imaginable.

5. Thanks for rubbing Watkins White Liniment on my legs when I was crying with rheumatism. You gave me a baby Aspirin, you rubbed liniment on my knees and you dried my tears with your kindness and your patience. I still have bad knees and I can't tell you how often I think of you when I'm rubbing Voltaren or Deep Cold onto my aching legs. It never feels as good as when you did it. It never will. Funny, how no matter what was wrong with me, no matter what I was crying about, you always gave me a baby Aspirin to make feel better. Just yesterday I had a terrible day at work and was bawling and feeling sorry for myself and thinking the world hated me. I went to the bathroom and took two Tylenol. I had no pain to speak of. Only the pain in my heart. But I thought of you when I took those pills and you know what, they made me feel better. Thanks.

Mom opening a Christmas present (from Simpson's!) in Markham, 1970s.

6. Thanks for making me spaghetti when I had my period that time when I was a teenager. I really wanted spaghetti for supper that night. We didn't have it often, mostly because Dad didn't like it, but I really wanted it this one time so I said, "I have a craving for it," and you knew it was a womanly-thing, a period-thing, so you made spaghetti using a can of Bravo spaghetti sauce. Dad probably bitched about it but to me it was more delicious than the juiciest steak and also our womanly secret.

7. Thanks for not murdering me. I know, there was times when I deserved it. So thanks for not shooting me in my retreating back when I ran away from home; or hanging me for a thief when I stole money from my brother; or strangling me when I was mouthy, which was all the time so frankly your arthritic fingers couldn't have borne that much strangling; or stabbing me with a butter knife when I refused to help with the dishes. Charming child, I was. Charming adult, too. Sorry about all that. Wish I could have been better because you deserved better.

8. Thanks for having beautiful penmanship; for being a talented artist; for being creative in all things. I love the way you write – I know that sounds silly but your handwriting truly is a thing of beauty. As a messy writer I envy and admire that about you. Also, you should blog more because you are a natural born storyteller with many, many stories to tell. You know me, I hate to be bossy, but get busy. :)

9. Thank you for ordering birthday cakes from Stouffville Bakery, the vanilla double layer ones with lemon curd filling. Thanks for the typewriter under the Christmas tree. Thanks for paying my way through college. Thanks for decorating the yard so beautifully for my first wedding. Thanks for playing Here Comes the Bride on the organ. Thanks for making the world's best apple pies. Thanks for taking us up to the cottage and letting us run wild and have the best times of our lives, while you sat alone and lonely with a crossword puzzle book and your own thoughts. Thanks for supporting me through thick and thin. You have never let me down, never. In a world where nothing is sure and people are cruel, you are my one constant, my rock. Thank you for unselfishly giving up your own life for your family.

10. Thank you for everything. I love you so much. Happy Birthday!

Mom and blue-haired Angus at his Grade 8 graduation last year.
She's still gorgeous. He still has blue hair.

P.S. The birthday girl sent me an e-mail last night to say how much she loved this post and everyone's comments and good wishes. She wanted me to pass on her thanks to you because she was having trouble posting a reply:

"Thanks Cathy for all the kind words you said about me. Thanks to all the people who sent great comments. I tried to comment but it didn't work. I had forgotten about the squirrel dream. That's funny. Thank you very much. See you to-morrow. Love Mom"

P.S.S. I'd like to thank CarrieBoo for her generous donation to the YMCA's Adult Literacy Programs, through my participation in the upcoming Muskoka Novel Marathon. THANK YOU CARRIE! She has a really fun blog, by the way, where she talks about family life and foibles and writing in an entirely entertaining way. Check her out! The novel marathon is getting closer - it all starts Friday, July 13 (eek!) with a whole weekend of writing, writing and more writing at Club 55 in Huntsville. Thirty writers will try their darndest to pump out a novel in that time, as well as raising as much money as they can so other people can learn to read and write. It's astonishing how many adults are illiterate in this day and age. Until I saw the statistics, I had no idea. If you'd like to find out more about the marathon, visit the website. If you'd like to sponsor my own efforts, click on the Muskoka chair (in the States it's called an Adirondack chair) on the top right side of my blog. I am thrilled about the support I've had so far and it makes my heart sing every time I see another donation. So thanks everyone! oxoox

Treasures

My mom had been bugging me for some time to "come and get your crap" and I kept saying "yeah, yeah, just throw the crap out, I don't want it." Thankfully she persevered.

Mom has a big house with a big, dry basement. Because of this, all her three lovely children and their assorted sundry children, former husbands and heretofore unknown acquaintances have stored their junk there. I was the worst offender. Because of my marriage break-up and multitude of moves I had a lot of boxes in that basement. As far as I was concerned, if I hadn't used anything in those boxes for the last eight years, I didn't need it and therefore didn't want it. I am NOT a hoarder. I detest yard sales. Generally speaking old junk makes me gag.

So –

"Mom, just take the damned crap to the dump! Or leave it there and I'll take it to the dump!"

"But Cathy, there's some really nice crap in there ..."

My mom, my lovely mom, was near tears.

OK. Fine.

Last week Dave and I went to my mom's house and collected all my "crap." What a revelation! There was all kinds of really cool crap in those boxes, crap I LOVE, crap I had forgotten all about, crap I wouldn't part with for anything, now that I remember I have it! I have had so much fun going through those boxes. Each item has a special memory or a story attached. In fact, I had such a good time that I thought I'd share my crap treasures with you!

The photo on top is a cheese dish that used to sit on my Grandma Hazel's farmhouse kitchen table. Grandma and Grandpa Hooper had aged cheddar cheese at every meal so the cheese dish was never put away. I loved that dish. Years later, after Grandpa died and Grandma was "downsizing" into an apartment, she gave a lot of stuff away, including this cheese dish. She gave it back to my mom, who had, I just found out, gave it to Grandma after she had babysat us brats one weekend many, many moons ago. I was probably still a toddler, which makes the cheese dish nearly 50 years old.  A while back Mom gave me the dish because I loved it so. Can you imagine me wanting to throw it out? Sometimes I'm such a fool.

Which reminds me of a story my father used to love to tell. He was also a great lover of aged cheddar cheese. One day he was at the farmer's co-op buying something for his hobby farm, when he spied a fresh shipment of artisan cheese in the co-op fridge. He wanted to know what kind of cheese it was, since it wasn't labeled, so he said to the teenager behind the counter, "Is that old cheese?" And the kid said, "No sir, it just came in yesterday."

My mom, who turns 75 this month (happy birthday, Mom!), is in the process of "downsizing" and is giving away stuff she doesn't use anymore. A lifetime of stuff. Incredibly sad, isn't it? We spend a lifetime accumulating "stuff," only to have to give it away again. Makes you wonder how important "stuff is in the first place. Anyway, without further adieu, some stuff:

I gave this teapot to my mom for some occasion many years ago. She gave it back to me last week. I just love it! The gorgeous colours, the whimsical cartoony characters – it makes me happy, just looking at it. As you can see our dog Misty was my photo assistant. She gave everything a sniff before the big shoot.

I just wanted to show you the evil grin on the mouse's face. Hilarious, eh?

Back when I was a smoker this was my favourite ashtray. How adorable is this? I remember buying ashtrays as souvenirs because they were "practical." Well, not so practical anymore – I've gotten rid of all but this one, which I believe is an antique. Visiting smokers have to use coffee cans on the front porch.

A long, long time ago when I was a reporter for the Port Perry Star, I did a story about a woman who was selling her creamer collection. Like my mom, she was downsizing into an apartment and was going to be selling the hundreds and hundreds of creamers she had displayed throughout her neat-as-a-pin house in Blackstock, Ontario. We had a lovely time talking and taking photos and drinking tea, so she let me pick out two or three creamers to take home. I loved this pink bunny – you pick it up by the tail and the cream comes out his smiling mouth.

When I got married the first time in 1986, my Aunt Judy worked in an antique shop in Goodwood, Ontario. Her gift to us was this antique cake plate in a brilliant blue colour. It is so precious to me – and not just because it's a beautiful plate ... mostly because Aunt Judy was a special kind of woman, all heart, and she died way too young. 

My mom has a tremendous collection of china knick-knacks, including many fancy miniature cups and saucers. This one came from China, before the days of Communism and, as well as being beautiful, it's old as the hills.

I remember Old Mother Hubbard in the parlour of our home in Midland, Ontario, when I was just a squirt. Mom also had an Old King Cole figurine. I have both now. She gave them to me decades ago because she thought they were "ugly." Not me.

My father was a railroad engineer with the CPR. I spied this bean bag doll in a gift store years ago and gave it to him on Father's Day. After he died Mom returned the gift to me and I have it in a place of pride on my bookshelf.

HA! I love this bobble-head salt and pepper shaker set. It's the main reason I got into collecting salt and pepper shakers. Whenever there's any kind of breeze the porcelain skeleton heads rock on their bony hinges, clacking against their bottom teeth. This is an old and extremely collectible piece. I think it was originally sold in a tacky souvenir shop in Niagara Falls. No, Laura Eno, you can't have it but I can will it to you if you really want...

Christmas photos from the chocolate box

"Christmas isn't the same anymore." That's what my mom said last night.

"Your father loved Christmas and it doesn't seem the same without him."

I found these old photos in a long-empty chocolate box when I was looking for photos of him and Aunt Judy for my last post. When all of these were taken, Christmas was pure, unadulterated magic. My siblings and I would get so wound up on Christmas Eve that we'd puke all night. My poor mother. It was bad enough, doing all the work she had to do to prepare, without the added burden of holding back hair, wiping foreheads and cleaning up from those who didn't make it down the hall.

My mom says Christmas isn't the same without Dad, but it has always been Mom who has made the holiday spring to life. She never missed a beat: all the food was homemade and fabulous. Her fudge was neighbourhood renowned. She stored it in a green Tupperware crisper in the bar fridge in the basement, making it in advance so there'd be plenty on Dec. 25. We'd steal it every chance we got in the weeks before, until, invariably, she'd be forced to make fudge on Dec. 24 because we'd cleaned the Tupperware out of everything but crumbs.

Mom had a record book for Christmas cards. In the days before computers, this was her storage unit of addresses, births, deaths, who sent a card last year, who was sent a card, new people, old people – it was all there. As a result, our own house was filled with cards from well-wishers from far and near. Mom hung them all over the house, resplendent in their own Christmassy glory.

She shopped, she wrapped, she decorated, she baked, she worked and worked and worked and I never heard a word of complaint.

Mom, maybe you're feeling a little down this year, maybe you do feel Christmas isn't the same without Dad. But I can tell you, without any word of a lie, that as long as we have you, we will always have Christmas.

Top photo: My mom on Christmas morning in Markham, Ont., mid-1970s.
Above, family photo in Midland. That's me, Mom, my brother Billy and my Dad.
We were posed in the parlour of the old Victorian house on Seventh Street.
 It was a room we were almost never allowed in – the exception
was piano practice and Christmas Day. This photo was probably taken in 1965,
before my sister, Liz, was born in 1967. I remember that old teddy bear.
Much loved, it was.

My parents, probably at a New Year's Eve party.
Look how young and adorable they are.

Christmas, mid-1970s. I think I was in Grade 11 because I remember that stupid haircut.
That's my cousin, Karen, in my lap with one of her ratty dolls. She got a new doll every Christmas
and then proceeded to demolish it with bubble gum and jam and other muck.
On the couch is her brother, Paul, with her parents, Uncle Howard and Aunt Mary,
as well as my brother and my dad.

Once Christmas morning was out of the way we went to my grandparents' house in Buttonville, Ont.
That's a photo of me with my Grandma, Hazel Hooper (and my cousin David in the foreground).
Grandma's house plays a big part in the novel I'm writing. This room, in fact, stars as
Weezie Polk's refuge from the big bad world. The house is torn down, has been for decades,
to make room for a stupid industrial plaza, but I'll never forget it.

Bill, Liz and me, probably around 1973.
Doesn't everybody look kind of dopey and messed up on Christmas morning?
Or was it just us? Liz certainly looks raring to go!

Not sure what year this was, but I was probably a senior in high school, judging by my haircut.
(How I judge everything but I really am terrible at remembering dates.)
One of our family's many traditions included a photo of stocking hanging on Christmas Eve.

Check out the tape recorder one of us got for Christmas. At the time it was
pretty high-tech equipment.