Oh, Madame Konstanz with your coy smile,
You have caught me in a rather domestic moment. Sometimes, when we get older, all we want is the comforts of our childhood, and no comfort is greater than food. Food can instantaneously transport us back to so many places with a mere wisp of an aroma or the tiniest nibble. Well, today the calls from ghosts of the past were strong. Growing up, one of my favorite things about Easter was that Grandma would make Paska, a traditional German Mennonite sweet bread made only at this time of year, although occasionally she would cheat and make it at other times of the year as she knew I liked it so much. 
Carla has a bubbly personality and a smile that would melt the coldest chunk of ice. Like me, she seems to attract interesting, bizarre situations which, if nothing else, make for wonderful stories. One day, she shared the following with me: She had just been in
(As a side note, Trail is known for its large Italian population…for years, and we are just talking
In any case, Carla can’t remember this guy’s name, but in typical Carla fashion, she waltzes right up to him with a huge grin and says, “Hi, how are you?”
He smiles and politely replies, “I’m fine, how are you?”
She continues on, “Great. Wow! It’s been ages since I’ve seen you. What have you been up to? What are you doing these days?”
He says, “Well, I’m in the movie business. I’ve just finished making film.”
Carla’s thinking, “Whoa, that’s pretty good for a Trail boy,” and blurts out, “Wow! Who would have thought? You making movies? That’s fantastic! You must be pretty proud of yourself.”
The stranger smiles, in fact almost blushes, then says, “You have no idea who I am, do you?”
Carla takes a good hard look at his face and suddenly the penny drops. “OMG, you’re John Travolta, aren’t you?” Yes, indeed. She said that he was extremely personable, gracious and polite. And she got to walk away with a good story.
When one gets to certain age, there are particular sorts of situations that amuse one immensely. Last week, I had one such incident. Many of you will remember my story a couple weeks ago about some of my students trying to guess my age. Although I found my students highly entertaining, I didn’t give much credence to the situation. What do twelve, thirteen and fourteen year olds really know about the fine art of determining one’s age? But nonetheless, it made for a humorous anecdote which provided an easy segway into conversation amidst peals of laughter. Well, in a completely different class, there is a young fellow, R, who I met for the first time a couple weeks ago. He is presently working with one of my students as a TA (teacher’s assistant). Our initial exchange was short, as there’s really not much time to delve into deep conversation in the midst of teaching a class. After that, I didn’t see R for about a week. Then one day, I walked into the staff room during break, and there he was. He looks at me with a big grin and effusively greets me with a robust, “Hi! How are you?” Only, I misheard him. I flash him an equally wide smile and reply back with a cocky, “Hi,” and then continue on, playful lilt in my voice, with, “I’m twenty-eight… how old are you?” (It really was a blonde moment.)
Now before you all go on about what an absolute ditz I am, hear me out. All this put on was not all for R. Two of my friends, T and S were standing there. It just so happened that they had heard the previous story, so I knew they would “get” it immediately. Oh yes, aren’t I clever one? But there stood poor R, somewhat confused by my response. And then it suddenly dawned on me that he hadn’t actually asked me my age. Oh dear, what could he possibly be thinking? Now, totally overcome by giddiness whilst trying to pull my foot out of my mouth, or perhaps shoving it in further, I start explaining to R the story which engendered my bizarre response (all this, while my lovely friends listened with mounting snickers) . The thing is, the more I explained, the more baffled his expression became…it was a sort of, “and why are you telling me this,” sort of look. Finally, he quizzically says, “So you’re not twenty-eight?” I simply reply, “No, not even close.” To which he slowly inquires, “Then how old are you? Because I’m thirty-one, and I was convinced that you were younger than me.” Oh yes, it was a great day.
In the restorative idleness of solitude, on the other hand, the widows discovered that the honorable way to live was at the body's bidding, eating only when one was hungry, loving without lies, sleeping without having to feign sleep in order to escape the indecency of official love, possessed at last of the right to an entire bed to themselves, where no one fought them for half of the sheet, half of the air they breathed, half of their night, until their bodies were satisfied with dreaming their own dreams, and they woke alone.
When I was growing up, my Mutti had a cleaning lady, Wilma, who came once a week. She was a good Dutch woman and an impeccable cleaner, probably the only one who has ever cleaned to my mother’s standards. This woman could make absolutely anything sparkle and shine and I am sure dust quivered in her shadow, we certainly did. She was just that kind of woman.
Thursday evenings were an inevitable stress for us kids as we had to “tidy” before Wilma came to clean, because you see, Wilma only cleaned. She was not there to pick up after us. She was very strict about that. Those were her rules. Nothing, absolutely nothing, was to get in the way of her cleaning.
The tension on Thursday nights was such that at one juncture one of my sisters, in the midst of a meltdown, took a purple wax crayon and in her scrawly grade one printing wrote, “Wilma, I just can’t take it anymore,” on the inside door panel of my mother’s antique washstand. Those were sentiments that I am sure we had all shared at one point or another, but luckily for us, my mother found this message of distress before Wilma ever happened upon it. If she would have, I am not quite sure what would have happened, but I am sure it wouldn’t have been good. We probably would have been down one good irreplaceable cleaning lady and sentenced to numerous years of cleaning penitence. But that’s not really what this story is about. You see, when Wilma started, she made it very clear to my mother that this was not a long term affair. She would only clean for my mother until her husband returned. He had left her some years previous, but she was adamant that at some point he would come to his senses, change his mind and they would be reunited. Well, weeks turned into months and months into years, but just the same, as if it were her mantra, she would say, “You know, I won’t be here for long. My husband is going to come back to me and when he does I will quit. I’m only cleaning until my husband returns.”
I know many of you are probably now thinking that this is a story of some highly delusional and probably obsessive compulsive woman, and it certainly might seem that way. Wilma was our faithful housecleaner for a good ten years or more, just as faithful to us as she was to her mantra. Then one day, just like that, out of the blue, she phoned my mother and said, “I won’t be cleaning for you any more, my husband has just come home.”
Apparently it only takes the faith of a mustard seed to move a mountain. At present, I’m working on trying to move molehills while attempting to remember that thoughts become things.
Eventually it comes, blasting us like the blitz of a headstrong storm rolling in off the ocean. Within moments, the heavens close their doors and the sky darkens, snuffing out the eternal hope of a singular ray of sunshine. All comes crashing down around us as that relentless monotonous drone penetrates the inner recesses of my soul. I sit still and silent amongst the chaos showering down around me mirroring the war that rages from within. Above me, I make out the shadow of it swooping through the black smoke. I can see it through the awkward angle of the eves. It circles. I can feel the piercing red beady eyes through the smouldering air. I close mine own eyes, yet remain haunted by the image of those fluorescent beady eyes emblazoned on my memory. I imagine them looking and seeing straight through it all, straight through right to my raw beating heart, my heart beating furiously, pounding so hard to a nervous rhythm that it almost breaks free of my ribcage which holds it prisoner. I open my eyes slightly and gasp. So close, so close.
I am walking, hurrying down a narrow path through the trees. A bright canopy of green towers above me. It is mild and comfortable. I am not alone. There is a man with me. Under other circumstances it would have perhaps been a nice day, but anxiety lies thick upon my brow. We move quietly without talking. We move swiftly with our nervousness ringing continually in our ears. The trees open up and we pass into a clearing. Quickly we glance around to ensure that we are alone before proceeding, and then we keep moving. The long grass sways gently in the fields. There is a soft wind at our back. The conditions for travel are favourable.
Suddenly we hear that dreaded unmistakable low hum in the distance. We haven’t any time. Our tension mounts as we momentarily freeze like deer caught in headlights. We must act quickly. The hum grows steadily louder. I scan the landscape. Nothing but a black dot in the distant skyline. A small country church stands nearby. Interesting roofline, a small portion sweeps low on the backside, leaving a minute space where we could crawl through and crouch underneath. We rush towards it, hoping no one sees us. We approach from both sides and quickly contort ourselves through the opening and try to make ourselves comfortable in our confined space.
1. I am a perfectionist. I believe that we are born with our personality traits. I was certainly born with this one, although I've worked hard over the years to try to mellow it out...but essentially it is who I am. My mother tells me that when I was a baby and learning to talk, that I could talk long before I would utter a word in front of anyone. She had placed a mirror in my crib and I would sit there and practice as long as I thought no one was watching. As soon as anyone would enter the room, I would stop. When I began speaking I essentially had a very good command of the language. I had the same struggle in Quebec when I was first learning French many years later. I hated the thought of making an error or talking like a toddler. Eventually I had to ask myself what was the worst thing that could happen was and just get out there and do it. Still, I tend to over do things. It's a bit of a stress.
Now, who to tag, who to tag...eenie, meenie, minie moe, I choose Cheryl, JBelle, Fede, Pinks, Mone, and VE.
Most men pursue pleasure with such breathless haste that they hurry past it.
I do not praise the wisdom of men, said the Reverend, for that is not great wisdom. Now I rather try to praise the folly of men, because it's remarkable how far their folly has brought them.
I don’t know that the little narrow path just beyond the bridge meanders behind the wall to the edge of town and eventually leads into a large garden with a big apple tree and a quaint little cottage. I don’t know that the man, who lives in this cottage, reminiscent of the gingerbread house in the tale Hansel and Gretel, is now retired, that he waits impatiently for Sunday afternoon when his curly haired granddaughter with her big blue eyes and cherry pursed lips and little scuffed black mary janes comes to visit.
I don’t know that she runs up and down the path along the side of the house chasing the mouser who in turn dives under the bushes searching for a quiet refuge. I don’t know that the little girl, once she’s had her fill of fun then flies breathless through the front door, dirt on her knees where Oma feeds her fresh baked cookies and a tall glass of milk. I don’t know that she gobbles it all up greedily and then peers into the china cabinet at grandma’s collection of knickknacks knowing that she mustn’t touch, but wanting to in the worst way.
I don’t know that later that afternoon she saunters lazily hand in hand with her mother down the cobblestone street. I don’t know that when they turn the third corner that there’s a little café that sells ice cream, their most popular flavour being a creamy hazelnut that would be perfect topped with melted chocolate. I don’t know that just a little ways further down this narrow street they reach the city walls where they take time to peer off into the forested countryside and then slowly pass through a gate into a large park with beautiful gardens.
I don’t know that many musicians hang out in this area serenading the lovers who laze about in the grass and on the park benches on sunny summer afternoons. I don’t know. There are many things I just don’t know.
Today I had a chance to browse through a book called, “The End of America – Letter of Warning to a Young Patriot,” by Naomi Wolf. Like I said, browsed, so I can’t give you a full synopsis, but what I read, was disturbing, to say the very least. This book is a wake-up call that brings to light issues of tyranny, democracy, and survival. It is a call to arms…compelling us to face the way the freedom in 
"You're a funny bird," laughs my sister, "You know, most birds head south for the winter. And what do you do? Winter comes along and you head straight north."
She's right you know. Just when almost everyone else is mourning the loss of those last summer rays and making their plans to grace those welcoming beaches in the south, I do an about face. I head out north on the autobahn zooming my way along until finally one by one the cars begin to disperse and it is no more. I am now on what amounts to not much more than a lonely country lane, yet still I forge on, urged by the gentle secret whispers of the North Sea. Long fields of flat farm land stretch out around me fringed by forested areas. Every so often I happen upon quaint red bricked houses with welcoming candles gracing the windows. And then, a small village with the same neatly organized quaint brick houses.
I continue past it all. The air grows thicker and mist periodically rests its heavy head upon the fields. The call of the sea is getting louder now. Soon I reach its edge, the very edge where it greedily swallows up the land and makes it disappear into its steely grey waters. But this is not where I want to stop. No, I want to ride the waves until I reach a speck of land that bravely pokes its towhead out of these icy waters and gulps for air. I want to wash upon its naked, lonely shores, be enveloped by its sandy dunes. I want to listen to the wind quietly whisper its secrets in my ear as it gently brushes the hair off my forehead and kisses my cheek. I want to bask in the pale winter sun, soaking up its cool rays. More than anything, I want the moment to stretch out into eternity with the promise of forever in the now, although ultimately I understand that it must cede its spot for another to take its place.
