Checklist Advice From the Very Best

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

He’s making a list and checking it twice was on the radio yesterday as an anthem to you and your prowess at keeping all the kids across the world straight so I thought list was the appropriate way to go, check them off, and put them behind me. My piddly remove trailer from NL Services, remove trailer from insurance, call doctors office (for the third time) to get the portal set up, package the Starlink and return via Fedex, and order some books, didn’t seem that daunting. My list was added to the pink sticky note and laid on my laptop for bright and early this morning.

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

The insurance company had an app as well but I wasn’t falling for that twenty minute q&a session with Janet the chatbot a second time. 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 the matter in short order. This time I wasn’t getting caught with Janet again, but she was prompt in saying to call. I guess Janet learned a lesson from our last encounter. That is not checked off yet though because of the next item I tackled on the list. Santa, how do you do it when things go wrong?

I called the doctors office and lo and behold the email that I had called about for two weeks finally arrived. Third time lucky, I guess. It was 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 I got an error saying it was already registered. Which I can safely say it was not because if I don’t do the registering, it doesn’t get registered, just saying. I called the office back and the lady told me just to click on the help button 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-free number which I called and there was another Janet who lured me through a dozen menu options and finally disposed of me with a hang up without resolution. I started again and clicked some more and found a random page which allowed me to enter information and 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 Naughty list?

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

I went online to schedule a pick up. IMPOSSIBLE, yes all capitalized for 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 Janet said she couldn’t help me and that I really should speak to an agent. Thanks Janet, at least give me a number or connect me. No, nothing like that so Janet should be bolded on your naughty list. I found a 1800 number through some sleuthing and 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 for about fifteen minutes, collected all the details, twice, but then he tried to schedule a pickup. It was in vain, only to tell me to call back the next day and see if he could get me on a list. Oh Starlink, do you understand these troubles. Please show mercy.

Then I looked online again for places to drop it off. I was pointed to a pit at Kent’s in CBS. Then I said to myself, I wonder does Kent take the packages. I called and a nice lady said sure, drop it off here and don’t worry about it. She is going on the nice list, eh Santa. Let’s just put everyone there on the nice list, please.

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

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

I guess, Santa, I worked my way through the problems, tested my 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 medical portal details. It’s out of my hands now but I managed to get through it on my own. That was only five things. Santa, how do you do it with the millions you get? Hero worship here.

If I’m not too old for a Christmas wish and since I never really bothered you before, please bring Janet a book to properly educate her in checklist etiquette. That will make me and many others very happy.

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

First Encounters

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

This was different than other springs in that the lambs 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 was exchanged for the youngest in the flock.

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

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

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

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

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

Mom dreaded these “legacies” as she called them for a different reason. The bottle-fed ones hung around the door long after they’d been weaned. She’d often come from Nanny’s in the dark and when she’d near the step, the sheep would scramble to life on the other side of the fence and 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 at sunrise.

So, this morning, Mom was making porridge and she gave me the lamb to feed. She dipped her finger in the molasses and spread it on 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 little thing shivered, and its heart thumped softly beneath my fingers. I was smitten.

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

Dad put a carboard box behind the stove and covered the bottom with an old towel. Once the lamb had fed, I laid Lambchops into the box where it could stay warm. The fire was low, just enough to take a chill 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 tiny lamb 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. Dad tried to put the lamb under its mother, but she had two thriving others and refused to feed Lambchops. She pucked it away and Dad decided we’d feed it for a few more days and then try again.

I was delighted. Sunday was sunny so I took Lambchops to the meadow and sat on a piece of cardboard as the lamb fed and slept. I stroked its side and petted the tiny body as the other lambs played around me. Lambchops wasn’t as big as any of them now and all the ewes had lambed. Still, though a runt, she’d have a chance and catch up to them in no time.

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

By this time the back gap was opened and the sheep, 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 making attempts to gambol as she figured out she had legs. Dad moved the box to the stable, added some hay for comfort, and she stayed with the others at night. I went out to feed her as the rest of the flock took off for the day.

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

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

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

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

I was flabbergasted by this notion and simply couldn’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 the sheep returned. I pictured Lambchops wandering in the drizzle of the late evening frantically searching for me or her mother. I believed it was in that order and that I had a responsibility to find her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was two or three weeks trying to get over her loss, the maddening anger I felt toward Lambchops’ mother, and the devastation of 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. It changed the child I was, and I fed lambs the next year but didn’t want the attachment that I’d came to have to Lambchops for fear of losing them and being that hurt again. Or maybe I just grew out of the notions my younger self had.

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

 

 

The Kite

Once upon a time ago I was a kite. I was stored with the other kites, content and happy to be the shape of the wind and to wait for my time. 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’t really on my own.

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

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

People would look up and remark on our outline against the sky. Some said I should let the kite go off on its own to be a better kite without me. It could go higher than I ever dared to let it go and beyond the length I could become. But that wasn’t my job. I had to stay fastened, or the kite wouldn’t be a kite, now would it. Oh yes, it would be for a little while when the breeze was just right, but when the wind blew hard or not at all, the kite would 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 was still a magnificent kite until it could no longer sustain the unattachment. In the frenzy of unattachment, it would whip and fold onto itself. The kite would fall and crash and scrunch and tumble along the streets. Its parts would break off or snap and tangle, it’s fabric would tear, and fray and it would become refuse. People would walk past it, probably the same ones who had wanted you to let go, and some may comment on its colour or remark that it used to be a beautiful 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 the soil having failed at my kite holding job and perhaps feel sorry for myself because I could no longer see nor hold the kite. I would fade and ravel and fret for what once was. I would look for another, perhaps smaller kite, but my hopes of tying to another would be slim the longer I remained rotting and useless on the ground.

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

Once upon a later time we could be found by the kind-hearted who believed we still have purpose. They put us in blue bins and bring us to a facility 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’m lucky, I’ll measure my length as a kite string and hold on tight enough that the kite can be itself, but not too hard that it will want to let go or tear free.

Alas, as I think on my time as the string, I discover it is me no longer. I am now the spool. I have to teach the kite and the string the lessons I once learned about holding on just right and about the abandon of being a kite. Though I let them both go, I know I’ll be there to reel them in and 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 or laced to the kite and the grounding, but I remind them that there are worse things than having boundaries. Part of being the spool is to pass on that they should enjoy their time as a kite and a string while that time is upon them and do all the kitey and stringy things they can instead. If they waste their time on 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 given to 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 glorious thing to be a spool when you’re a spool.

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

 

 

Something about twenty-four, but who’s counting?

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

That first time going to school was a terrifying rebirth in ways that none would particularly understand today because of play dates, day care, pre-kindergarten, kindergarten, MacDonalds, Hockey, Soccer, Music, camps, birthday parties, etc. that allow kids to connect. Conveniences like washing machines and dryers, crock pots, air fryers, electric ranges that will cook any time you want, freezer meals, vacuums, electronic sweepers, all the things that take away the menial tasks that were once more labourious and essential to living. 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. All these kids activities we weren’t exposed to, so my world remained inside the fence posts with the one who made all those things look easy. And that was the same for mostly every other household that we would come to know.

Now me and the five other grade one students of 1970 on Albert MacDonald’s bus from North Harbour to Our Lady of Mount Carmel school are or have turned sixty in 2024. We and the other twenty odd in our class have spread out across the world. Some we have lost, some have returned to their roots in 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 and frightening day on the bus until grade eleven graduation.

Not all these experiences within those eleven years were fun I might add. Like being in the crosshairs of Rayme D when he had the dodgeball, and you were the only thing between him and a win. Not fun. Well, if he got you. But if you got him, that was a different story. New friendships popped up that remain today while others are just pictures in a yearbook because I haven’t seen them since the last bell in 1981. Overall, that was a time of growth. Moving on after that was quite traumatizing, as well. Not only because of what happened to me that last summer before grade eleven but also because it was going out into the world on a new school bus with nobody familiar around to keep me company. Social media wasn’t a thing, so our only social was within the walls of the school or the endpoints of North Harbour. The September after graduation, our worlds expanded. Knowing you’d survive it because you’d done it before was cold comfort. Again, I was ten days late starting and friendships had been made of which I was never part of. Being in the crosshairs of teachers maligning me because I was a girl trying to do a “man’s” job at Civil Engineering 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 the world expanded again. That time I had a partner who could introduce me to this new world. Family happens as family does and the next thing the world turned upside down and I was off to school again, college this time uncaring that I was alone going through the same doors that had not been kind to me the time before. It was different, not at all intimidating. I was older and my own care was for the family 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 servant will say, “oh, you had it knocked,” meaning that I cruised through those twenty-seven years without much to do, with no stress, feet up, paid well, etc. That’s not the truth. To them that knows, I was driving the bus on so many things, out in front of change, pioneering, and working hard to improve things that made sense and unafraid to speak up when things didn’t. I can truly say I loved my job and even 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’ll adventure 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 extraordinary friendships at school, at college, at work, and through writing, and those connections 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 have to work tomorrow and I’m allergic to beer.

Whether I have 24 minutes, hours, months, years, ahead of me, 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 being unleashed at a bus stop full of lessons learned and not an ounce of anxiety or fear as I look for destinations.

If you’re lucky enough to have me as your driver when you get 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.

Update, we bought a house in St. Bride's so my 24 weeks turned into 18 months ~ maybe I should change that to 24 - (NAH) I'll do a 25 in 25 just to be sure. So, I did sort of change my mind, but I'll keep it at not really. The house changed my mind but the adventure will be worth it, I'm sure of that. 

A Game of Queens

For the last few weeks, the urge has been strong upon me to play a game of cards called Queens. Now it is no good having the urge by yourself if you have nobody to play it with because it is not a single player game. So, the gnawing sense of needing to play has been tumbling around in the white noise of the day, creeping into silent gaps, and waving for attention. I know 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 making a funny face. That’s the way he posed for every single picture that he was in by himself if he knew the snap was coming.

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

He is gone 23 years today as I write this. There are no tears and not because I don’t miss him or because it’s been 23 years and you can’t possibly grieve somebody for that long, but because he wouldn’t want it. And by the way, only people who don’t experience grief put a limit on it. Do your own grief thing.

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

He could have had so many reasons not to be cheery because there wasn’t a lot of sunshine for him to brag about. His mother died when he was just a baby, 18 months old, and his dad died when he was a young boy. He lost many of his brothers in their youth and all his siblings moved away. He was 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 in Scotland. He learned to read and write on his own and was dubbed to have a grade 8 education even though he hadn’t stepped inside a schoolhouse. He married at 36 and reared a big family with very little. He moved his house from John's Pond to North Harbour all on his own and board by board and then built it 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 were gone. How much more we know nothing about because he never spoke of nor dwelled on hard times.

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

As a young girl, I spent lots of time “in the country” with him at rabbits or trouting or picking berries. Bakeapples, especially, required a long hike of more than an hour to get to the right marshes. He had lots of patience with young legs and carried us across rivers on his back no matter how many of us went. And there was always a mug up or two somewhere during the days. He’d light a fire and boil a can of water for tea or bring a thermos or two. The pause in the day was important to him. When all of us got more interested 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 the weather, he’d rig up to step over our fence and make his way to the church for a few prayers. Even when he broke his ankle, he still went until later in life when 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 because he wanted to be, kind because he knew the value of it, happy because he also knew the value of that, and so many more great things that he passed on. Though a man of solitude, he was the epitome of a father by all accounts when we were growing up. I have lots of great memories of all the love that was shown in so many untraditional ways.

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

The Little Christmas Tree of Long Ago

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

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

Having the couple of dozen free, their edges shaped in wiggles and triangles by our small hands, we all took to designing. Once we had drawn and 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 affair so as not to tear the decoration or make the hole too big that the yarn wouldn’t hold. Sharon carefully clipped off grey yarn while Barry and Harold made whopping great knots on the end and pushed the other end through the holes, sometimes with the aid of the scissors tip. I finished them off with a loop tied on the outer end big enough to hang on the limbs.

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

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

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

There, Dad nailed two splits crosswise on the stump so that it 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 up the back of the standing woodpile and the bordering board fence. It seemed so far for our little legs until we reached the corner where the fence took a turn up the hill and the woodpile ended. We had the opening barred off with a section of fence so that we could create our own little house. The only way in was through the magical passageway under the wood where we transformed from child to adult between ends and reverted back again on the way out.

Eagerly, Harold and Barry ran to the house and fetched the box of decorations. The ground was uneven, so the tree was partially leaning against the corner in the fence. We quickly fixed that with a few strings of yarn tied to the fence and the woodpile. It was magnificent. We set to work with the paper chain, each one of us taking turns to fix and move and drape until 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 once turpentine from the fresh tree grabbed on to it. That left globs of decorations in some places until we decided to plan instead of just doing.

We admired our creation before Barry mentioned we didn’t have a star. We dragged the milk box back to the house and cut out a five-point star. Mom gave us a strip off the tinfoil roll. We crinkled it over the cardboard until everything was covered and shiny and fingerprinty.

Dad cracked off the narrowest split from the woodbox and we scotched-taped it to what we concluded was the back. We took more yarn to fasten that to the narrow sprig at the height of the young spruce. Away we went again to crown the Christmas Tree. Harold balanced on the top of the fence and held the star while Barry tipped the tree forward and me and Sharon strung the yarn around and around until the star’s fate was sealed. We gingerly placed our Elizabethan tree back in the corner and fidgeted with the paper chain until nothing was bare.

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

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

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

Over the next three days we wore a path in and out under the woodpile 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 for nothing because we had what we needed in abundance.

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

A writer and a singer pass each other on the road: Me and Ed Sheeran

Today, Ed Sheeran and my mother taught me a lesson in looking back. As groundwork, I am attending a writing retreat in Clifden on the West Coast of Ireland. Funny thing is, I didn’t come here to write, really, but instead maybe to find a story, or inspiration, or something that I didn’t know I needed. Day one, I’m getting closer.

So, what does Ed Sheeran have to do with this? Well, after spending the morning with a bunch of writers and reflecting on life, stories, etc. and thinking of my mother, I decided, since I had nothing to write in the afternoon, I’d challenge myself to a nice long walk.

I didn’t know how it would go because I hadn’t been walking except for the off and on odd time that I’d go for 20 minutes or so, but nothing like the “go big or go home” notion that I had in that moment. I packed my backpack with water and my room key, a few tissues and set out to find Clifden Castle and the great lookout.

I started on a hill, simply because I had to go left and left entailed hill. I did okay, took my time and made it to the top. My heart and lungs were in symphony with the elements. Or perhaps that was my illusion, because in reality, there would have to be a hurricane on for that to be true.

On a flat stretch I heard footsteps behind me and looked back. Having a writer brain, I believed it was better to look a serial killer in the eye before you die and you can somehow bring holy hell on him if you should die, or maybe said serial killer might change his mind once they made a personal connection or eye contact.

No, I don’t always think of serial killers when somebody walks behind me in a strange land, but moments before I had noted all the large gate posts had four standing stones on top – assuming it was for north, south, etc., but I came to a cottage that had large round stones on top of the gate posts that didn’t fit with the picture. To that, I thought maybe I’d ask somebody if they were out in the yard. But, like you never know, it could be a serial killer’s house so that gave me pause. But there was a patio umbrella. Did serial killers have patio umbrellas? I was working up the courage to cross the road when in the next step, I saw vans in the back yard that gave serial killer vibes so I just kept on going intent on not making eye contact with anyone in the yard. I had just escaped the grip of a serial killer – yes my mind works like that.

So that set me up to think of serial killers when I spotted the man behind me. I turned again going forward and he was instantly beside me. “Good afternoon,” he said. “Beautiful day.”

Did serial killers really start with that. I figured I give him a chance. I could always use the throat punch move if he had ill intentions. Saying that, I am obviously overstating any bravado I might have should the situation really arise.

Anyway, the young man looked familiar. He had a red beard, and over his hat he was listening to music on really expensive headphones. Serial killers didn’t pay a lot for such things. “Beautiful day indeed,” I replied as I sized him up trying to figure out where the familiar was coming from.

He had lifted the earpiece from one side. “I’m going to the look out,” I said. Then I tried not to give away my regret for saying that because he could go there and lay in wait for me because serial killers were crafty like that.

“Good for you,” he said. “Me too.” So, I realized he’d made an assessment of my abilities in his “good for you” tone that was off putting in a way if I were somebody who’d be offended by such a thing. Maybe I could see it as encouragement instead.

“Enjoy your walk,” I said. He nodded and left. Now I was able to get my bearings. As he left I thought of Ed Sheeran. That was who I’d been speaking to. Ed Sheeran was on the road. Darn, I missed the opportunity to get a picture with him. But he deserved his privacy, and it was kind of him to say hello to me on the road. And he didn’t really have a tone. That was on me.

As I continued, there were several places to get off the road, paths to take and I wasn’t sure how far the “look out” was, so I followed Ed, who stayed in my periphery for a long time. I took some snaps and continued in my plod toward the lookout which, at every turn and hilltop I was expecting to see.

By and by, Ed was out of sight, and I stopped to take a drink rather than trying to catch him. There were times he didn’t travel too fast, I doubted he was lingering so I could follow him, and he’d have to come back, after all. But, writer brain, he could be luring me to my death.

I digress. I laid the backpack on the rock wall to get my water bottle. I looked over. Below me was Clifden Castle. I would not have seen it if I didn’t stop. Ed was sending me a message about paying attention to what was around me and not being so focused on the end point that I miss important stuff. Thanks, Ed, understood.

I took some pictures, admired the view, and packed away my water bottle. I decided to keep going. I didn’t want to go back yet as my heart and lungs were becoming acclimatized to the distance and had settled. It was truly a beautiful day. Then, I came to a fork in the road and there was no sign of a lookout sign.

I chose the coastal route. Ed crossed my mind. Which way would he have gone? Too late now, he was out of sight. Maybe, I had escaped a serial killer with my chosen path. Curiosity kicked in now that I didn’t have Ed distracting me. Several times I saw a turn and wanted to see what was on the other side. Scenery was unbelievable. I saw a sign that told me to be cautious of the bull, which I figured was an allegory for life. That made me smile.

Then I thought of my mother and how she would have loved to be here. I wore mittens she had knit, a purposeful take to Ireland because it was a place she’d always wanted to go. What would she want me to know? A blackberry thorn grabbed my mitten and stopped me. I looked out over a castle, the gorgeous ocean, the scenery, everything was just awesome. My writer brain zinged again and thought of what I’d seen by looking back, and by just simply looking. Was she telling me that while it was good to look forward, there was also something to be learned and brought into the present by looking back. The castle had been there, I would have missed it by going forward, focusing on nothing else but Ed Sheeran. But the castle would be there whether I’d seen it or not. That’s the thing about things you don’t appreciate or regrets you have for things you haven’t seen. They are there anyway, with or without you.

I looked at the hitch and realize we live a life of hitches. Mending them might be a looking back thing, a looking forward thing, but the hitch would have changed the stitching no matter what way I looked. It was a beautiful hitch. My favourite colour had been pulled out. The hitch had happened, I could mend it if I wanted, and leave it as a reminder of that moment. Maybe I would. Two beautiful memories of Mom and a gorgeous day. We often laughed at the scrapes she got into of which this was definitely not one, but reminded me of those moments. That’s the thing about the little worries and disruptions, in the rear-view mirror, they’re not that bad and are sometimes funny if you want them to be.

I had a chat with a couple of ponies, a couple of donkeys, and then a lady and a dog made their way toward me. I asked her about the lookout, the official one, because up to then everything I looked out over was stunning in an unofficial way. She confirmed I should have taken the other route and, though it was a loop, it would be long after dark when I got back if I had the energy to go around. My mind did want to keep going, but reality said differently. I went to the next turn and planned on going back. There was Ed, again. Making his way toward me.

He stopped and chatted. He’d been to Canada recently. I won’t give up his secrets because they are his to disclose. We said our goodbye’s and off he went. He obviously didn’t recognize me (laugh really hard out loud). But, I let him go ahead a few steps before I turned around and followed him to Abbyglen.

Before too long, he was out of sight. I enjoyed the views on the way back. I thought of Mom. I saw things I didn’t notice in my going. That’s the thing about perspective. You go with what you go with at the time. I believe she walked with me. I felt her presence. I felt her peace. I felt a “letting go” of sorts. A past can’t be changed kind of thing where any regrets should be left, lessons are all you can bring forward. I felt her kindness mirrored in me. I thanked her for being such a meaningful part of all that I am and all that I hope to become under her influence.

And then Ed appeared again. Out of nowhere he passed me on the other side of the road. He’d accompanied me, being there when I needed him as a guide. He’d let me go as I walked back to Abbyglen. I could find the rest of my way alone. Thanks Ed. Thanks Mom. Message received.

Two hour walk, lots of pictures and inspiration. Writer brain engaged - maybe overactive. Writing is a cure for that.

Day two, what’s ya got?