parts

Sometimes old snippets of songs waft out from where ever they are usually held in cold storage. Yesterday it was a Round I learned in elementary school; Sweetly Sings the Donkey. (By the way, there is nothing sweet about a donkey braying. It could stop your heart.)

Sweetly sings the donkey
At the break of day
If you do not feed him
This is what he'll say
Hee haw, hee haw
Hee haw, hee haw, hee haw.
Hee haw, hee haw
Hee haw, hee haw, hee haw.

Some afternoons, our teacher would stop writing on the blackboard.
She would fix us with a sprightly smile and wave her arm.
Hazah, we were divided into groups.
Group one would launch into song.
Just as they teetered on the brink of the second stanza she would fix her eyes on group two and waving her arm, stir them into action. Sometimes there was even a third group and heaven help us, a forth.
Children all around the room squinted their ears and sang with fervor. They tried not to listen to, in fact, they tried not to even hear the person singing one row over. Listening to the song as it rolled out in waves was a fatal mistake as your voice invariably followed your ears.
That is because Rounds are the musical version of patting your head while rubbing your stomach.

I told my grandson today that it reminds me of politics.
People are all singing their song as loudly as they can.
They are not listening to anyone else if they can possibly help it.

Our teacher always let us sing the song through several times and gradually a second song emerged to our amazed ears. A harmony that went in and around and up and away.

That's the hope isn't it, with politics, that somehow, the very different lyrics will blend and become greater in their sum than their parts.

speech

"I gave my speech at school today Gramma," my grandson says.
"Oh, wonderful," I cry. "What was your topic?"
"Why there shouldn't be speeches at school."

first aid

I signed up for a first aid course once, long ago.
We met in a large echoing gymnasium,
two rows of us all sitting with our feet on the floor and our eyes on the instructor.
There we launched into the lesson, pondering calamity after calamity.
I was gradually aware of a strange sensation.
An unexpected reaction.
"What am I feeling?" I wondered.
"What is it.....?"
And then I knew.
It was blood.
Every time the instructor said the word, blood, I wavered and wilted.
"What?"
I had never been qualmish before. I had never been queasy or qualmish about.....blood.
With a growing feeling of disbelief I realized that if she said blood one more time, I would have to leave!
She said blood one more time.
I had to leave.
I raised my hand and made my exit.
The gymnasium was very large.
The doorway seemed very far away.
I wavered and wilted.
I only got as far as the doorway before I slumped to the floor.
They used me to practice bandaging since I was already laying down. 

she said no

She answered all the questions right,
one after the other,
my little kindergarten grandchild.
All right until the teacher asked, "If you are playing and having lots of fun, and I call you, do you have to come?"
"No," she said, with the confidence of four.
Was it a trick question?

almost irish

I did a trunk show.
Do you know what that is?
I did a quilt trunk show for a high school grade 11/12 sewing class.
It wasn't a literal trunk of course.
It was a giant suitcase on wheels stuffed to the brim with quiltish pieces and  a giant tote over my shoulder stuffed to the brim too.
Quilt trunk shows were one of the things I loved when I was part of a quilt guild.
I loved hearing and seeing the story of a quilters creative path.
I loved hearing the passion in their voice and seeing their style, unique as a finger print.
I think when you love to do something, when you have a passion, sharing it is inevitable.
And contagious.

I warned the girls that I would be talking as fast as an auctioneer. It would be a sort of archaeological dig through layers of time, up, up, up through fabric and batting.

I began by showing them something I had sewn, when like them, I sat with my foot on a sewing machine pedal in a high school sewing class.
It's crazy that I graduated from high school forty years ago this June.
It's crazier that I still have a grade 12 sewing project in my cupboard.
What!!??

The focus of my grade twelve sewing course was tailoring.
I dutifully stitched up a pale pink jacket with all the bells and whistles; covered buttons, bound button holes, a curved lapel, pleated pockets, lining......

It looked pretty good on too. Added curves. That could only be a good thing.

I also made a skirt to go with it.
A-line.
Kind of has a prim and proper vibe somehow.
Looks can be so deceiving.
How in the world has this suit survived all of the Pack It Up And Throw It Out purges that happen over the years. Especially since I moved nine times in the first five years I was married.
It's a mystery.

The girls duly admired my quilts, and were the perfect audience, involved and attentive.
It was a lot of fun.

There was one quilt that seemed to be a favourite. The girls all said, OHHHHHHHHH, in unison. It is an unfinished quilt, a work in progress actually, composed of scrappy sixteen patches. It reads as an almost Irish chain. Wow, Almost Irish would be such a great name for it. My mom has already dubbed it My Blue Heaven but maybe it could have two names.

I had originally planned to set the blocks on point but decided that having the 'Almost Irish Chain' running diagonally was actually more interesting.
I plan to add two more rows to the length and then add an oversized four patch border.
Maybe.
And an Ikea bird print for the backing.
Maybe.
That is part of the allure of quilting; the sense of mystery and surprise.
It never gets old.

not usually

Dare I tell you this story.
It has a happy ending.
I didn't know that though when I lived it.
I believed something that wasn't true instead.

It happened last fall.
Just after mid-terms.
I wondered later how different my day would have been if I just hadn't gone to the computer and turned it on that morning.
But I did.
And for a while, I believed something awful and I'm not sure I've completely recovered yet.

I've been taking some University courses as part of a Library diploma program.
They've been online, but the exams are all on campus.
I had two mid-terms scheduled for the same day.
A double header.
When I arrived back home, arms full of books, my husband asked how it had gone.
"Easy peasy," I said, confidently.

It takes a while for marks to be posted but I didn't feel worried at all.
And sure enough, one morning, there they were.
The little red arrow showed that grades were available and I happily clicked.
It was the click of doom.
My first thought was that there had to be some kind of mistake.
That I had to be looking at someone else's grade.
It was a failing grade.
Not just a poor grade but a clear fail.
How could that be.
I felt something akin to horror.
It wasn't that I had clearly failed the course that came as such a shock.
It was that I had felt I had passed.
And not just passed, but passed well, and easily.
The only explanation for such a disconnect was not a pretty one.
I think one of the hazards of caring for someone with dementia, especially a mother or father, is that you fear, even if you never let on to anyone... you fear that you may end up the same.
And now it all seemed too late.
Too late for my dreams.
I wandered around the house in a daze of disbelief.
I wandered around the house in my pajamas and cried.

Several hours trickled by.
I felt alternately sick and sad, hot with embarrassment and cold with dread.
I'm pleased to say that I eventually 'got a grip.'
'Enough,' I said firmly to myself.
'You are NOT a quitter.'
I made a decision to finish a lesser version of my planned schooling.
I emailed the instructor and asked to speak to her about my terrible grade.

Almost immediately, an email appeared, followed by another.
Both from the professor.
The first was to the entire class.
There had been a technical glitch in posting the marks.
They had incorrectly re-calibrated percents.
She would be posting the correct grades shortly.
The second email was just to me.
It was a very heartful apology.
I had done considerably better than the class average.
She wanted me to know that.
She hoped it would help.

It did help to know that I had passed well but I can't say that I felt happy.
Or even relieved.
When I think of it now I can still remember the strange numbness I felt.

Life can really put a stick in the spokes can't it?
And our self esteem goes sailing over the handle bars.
It sure hurts to hit the ground but the damage isn't usually permanent.
Not usually.

always loved art

There are just so many ways to embarrass yourself.
And aren't there so many mistakes a person can make?
Sometimes after thrashing and struggling through the swamp of life, I stagger out onto solid ground convinced that nothing I've learned so far is a transferable skill.

It seems that the math of life predestines us to trouble.
Human being + life = trouble.
I never liked math.
Maybe I should start thinking of my life as an art project.
Something unusual, but creative and if you turn your head and squint, you can see the beginnings of something lovely.
I always loved art.
P.S.
I am discovering that math has patterns and rhythms that I have been embracing all of my life, without even realizing....I love patterns and rhythms. Does that mean I love math?  

very illuminating

I dreamt my life was an Excel spreadsheet and I couldn't get the formulas to work.

We hunkered down in front of the computer.
We started by studying Word and then PowerPoint, but for some reason, when we began to work in Excel, I began to dream at night, to toss and turn and mutter in my sleep.
Click once, click twice.
Drag by the corner.
Highlight.
Enter.
Dusty corridors in my brain are seeing the light of day.
It has been very illuminating.

beckoning

Hooray!
The sky is blue.
The sun is high.
The air is crisp.
Well, crisp might be a bit optimistic.
It likely is cold, plain and simple, and my rhapsody really has very little to do with the weather.
The hooray isn't so much about looking out as it is about looking ahead.
Ahead to end of semester.
Not all endings in life are delightful, but end of semester is one of the golden few.
Finals beckon.
Beckoning is fine.
I prefer to think of my final exams as 'beckoning.'
It sounds sort of inviting that way.
Friendly even.
Far better than thinking of finals as looming, dark and brooding.

I am allowing myself a learning curve.
Strange, how at times that learning curve has felt a lot like a traffic circle. 

we did

I wanted to be early.
You know.....that psychological advantage you get from being early, from being able to take your time, to settle in, to get the lay of the land.
And to know for a certainty that you won't be LATE.
I left home in plenty of time.
I drove the fastest route.
I parked as close as I could.
I hastened straight and true to the right floor, and the right room.
Others had clearly felt as I for the room wasn't empty and continued to fill.
I turned on the computer.
I unpacked my textbooks.
I lined up my pencils and eraser.
I signed on to my student account.
I signed on to the library.
I signed on to my favourite data base.
I signed in and signed in.
There was a brief emergency whence I couldn't remember one of my user ID's. Gadzooks! Why is it always the simple ones we forget.
The room took on the hum of commiseration, common before exams.
The hand of the clock jerked ahead.
Almost time...almost time...
And then, there in the doorway, the voice of doom.
We had all been told the wrong room.
The entire class, settled and poised for action must move across the campus to a distant building and an unknown room.
And quickly.
Mid-terms are a limited time offer.
As students lept up and headed as one for the door I began to sign out.
Click, click, click click, click, argggghhhhh, click, click, click.
So much for psychological advantage.
Back into my bag went my text books and pencils.
I scooped up my purse and my jacket and my bag.
I galloped out the door with the rest of the harried horde.
As we panted down corridors and  galloped down sidewalks a growing sense of calm enveloped me.
"We're getting some oxygen to our brains," I gasped to the girl, fleeing beside me.
"We'll likely all do better on the test for this."
And I think we did.

sink or swim

Oh, for a moment last night, I thought I heard the rustle of wings, as my hopes and dreams fluttered out the window.
No?
Too melodramatic?
Well, my baby granddaughter doesn't call me Drama for nothing.
I don't have time to wallow though.
The next wave is already rolling in and I have to concentrate to keep my footing.
It's sink or swim.

without teeth

It's Picture Day at my grandson's school. Just hearing that this morning made me remember my grade three year with a grin. Not a smile with teeth showing though.
I have no school pictures for grade one and two. We lived in Blue River then, that little town locked in time. There the two room school house still reigned; no library, no gym, no picture day.
A move to Kamloops catapulted us into the fast moving stream of popular culture and that included school pictures.
We lived within walking distance of an elementary school. Well, running distance some mornings. I'm sure you've noticed that you will be up and ready with the birds on mornings when it doesn't matter a whit, but on a morning weighted with importance like Picture Day, life will cast marbles under your feet.
I remember sprinting for the door as my mother did a fly by visual check, only to be found wanting.
"You haven't brushed your teeth," she wailed.
Too late, too late.
Sometime later, when the photographer instructed me to smile, my mother's words acted as a sort of adhesive. No matter how I was exhorted to smile, my lips remained firmly sealed.
A grin of sorts was preserved for posterity. I was as happy as I could look without including my teeth.
Looking at the title of this post has made me laugh.
My grandson is missing several front teeth so they will be absent from his school picture too.
May his smile be big.

beginning again

The first morning of the school year.
I have been having mixed feelings about that this year.
It has seemed to be coming too quickly.
It has seemed like it will mean the end of something rather than the beginning, as it should.
My thoughts this morning shaped into prayers just as it began to rain.
Just as children everywhere were hastily wiping away toast crumbs and scurrying for shoes and bags.
Just as mothers were buckling up babies and backing out of driveways in their vans, the clouds burst and rain poured down in a torrent.
It seemed such an appropriate conclusion to the summer break.
When the dust had settled as it always does after the rain, I could clearly see that today is another fine day.
Just like yesterday was.
And just like tomorrow will be.
There is a time for everything.
A time for rain and a time for sun.
A time for ending and a time for beginning again.

a bargain at that

Yesterday was Fun Day at my grandson's school. Isn't that an optimistic name for an event involving hundreds of children roiling in disarray amidst drizzle, mist and rain? Teachers are heroes to plan these special treats for the children.
The day marched on past races and tosses, relays and tug of wars, past snacks and drinks and sand pits.
My grandson had placed two loonies in his pocket to spend on candy after lunch.
He had eyed the candy table longingly whenever activities marched his class within gazing distance of it.
At last it was his turn, and he dashed off with the rest of his class.
A few moments later, he appeared, breathless before his mother.
"Can I buy some books with my loonie," he asked.
"Instead of candy?" his mother asked incredulously?
"They are such a bargain," he stated enthusiastically.
A used book table had been set up in the foyer.
One, three, or five books for a dollar.
"I want a book that teaches me something," he said earnestly to the woman behind the table.
He had hoped for a dictionary but settled on learning more about birds, science fair projects, and assorted facts.
He gleefully accepted a Websters Dictionary from my library after school and happily crowed, "Four books for a dollar."
I congratulated my mother on the superiority of her progeny.
Books over candy, and a bargain at that.

remembering

The lights were dim.
The auditorium packed.
We were breathlessly following the story unfolding on the stage.
The Sound Of Music is set in a perilous place and time.
For a while this afternoon we almost forgot we were watching a play.
And while we forgot, it seems someone was remembering.
The Officer of the Third Reich raised his arm in a salute and barked, "Hiel Hitler."
Directly across the aisle from me, an elderly man's face contorted and his hand flew to his mouth.

bad guy

It was during the opening act of Sound Of Music this afternoon, that I became aware of the little boy seated behind us.
"There goes the bad guy," he declared, just as Mother Superior exited stage right, her black robe swirling.

handy victim

Sometimes we learn something too late.
I once learned that the word 'blood' made me squeamish.
Unfortunately, I was sitting in the front row of a First Aid class when this great revelation dawned.
I had noticed as the class progressed that I was feeling strange.
I noticed each time the teacher said 'blood' that I felt even stranger.
In fact, I was feeling positively stricken.
"If she says blood one more time, I'll have to leave," I thought with a growing sense of disbelief.
She said 'blood' one more time.
I asked to be excused rather weakly, and tacked towards the back of the large room.
I made it to the doorway but no further.
Darkness closed in and I slid to the floor.
They used me to practice bandaging because I was already lying down;
A perfectly handy victim.

star within a star

I've always loved this picture.
My mother and her brothers and sisters were on skis as soon as they were old enough to stand, no doubt a tribute to the influence of their Nordic father.
Snow and play and skiing were one and the same.
Who was the first clever mind to visualize a star created by ski and pole I wonder.
P.S. The poles create a star within the star.

soundtrack

I was a teenager in the 70's. This fact makes it all the stranger that I have been waking up with Old Standards playing merrily in my head. Momma Said There'll Be Days Like This seemed especially appropriate last week, and this morning my eyes popped open to It Had to Be You. That song isn't as romantic as you might think at first glance. I was startled into wakefulness by the confession that, "in spite of your faults, I love you still." Truth and romance are not mutually exclusive but somehow a little more flattery seems fitting.
Isn't it amazing how many lyrics are socked away in our memories just waiting to be summoned. Do you remember singing as a child? I remember my grade two teacher walking up and down the rows as we warbled, and pausing by my desk with the request that I sing a little more quietly. My best friend the little boy next door, and I were having a competition to out sing each other no doubt, but our spirited maximum volume version fell on deaf ears so to speak.
My grandson is always singing. He creates the soundtrack for the drama that unfolds as he plays. He even has a tune that I call The Sound of Danger.
Someone has said, "Music is what feelings sound like." Too true.

sir galahad

As I sat limply at the table this evening, breaking several rules of etiquette at once, I had a deja vu moment.
Long, long ago, I had drooped just as limply in my school desk, my head propped up, with my elbow resting tiredly on my desk. A clock was wearily ticking. Someone was shuffling their feet.
My grade three teacher was no longer making eye contact and I was entertaining myself by sliding my elbow across the cool, smooth surface of the desk.
When my elbow reached the edge, it should have paused.
Instead, it dropped like a rock over a cliff.
I followed.
There was a flash of skirt, and two little legs shot out of the desk as I tumbled to the floor. I saw London, I saw France..........
The class was delighted.
This was clearly the most entertainment they had enjoyed all afternoon.
Everybody laughed. Well, except for me of course, and one other very sober individual. A little white haired boy rose gravely from his desk and assisted me back into mine without a word. Sir Galahad.
Out of that large classroom of children, his is the only name I still remember. Blessings on you wherever you are.