Movie star mom

Mom-car
Mom – 1940-something

Summers brought activity in the house to a boil. University aged children – offspring of family friends – came to work on the docks or in the fish packing plant run by my father. They lived with us and were looked out for by my mother who also cared for me, my sister, two brothers and my dad. Mom and my sister made lunches for all, assembling three or four thick sandwiches for each young man, enough to last the whole day. Continue reading

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Kooky

My job in the production of Christmas jam-dot shortbread cookies was to dip them hot-from-the-oven with their thumb-print craters filled with jam the temperature of molten lava, into a deep bowl of icing sugar. It felt like silk between my fingers, slippery and soothing. After dipping three cookies, my fingers were coated in 1/8 inch of compacted icing sugar. I licked it off while waiting for the next batch to cool enough to dip them in their first layer of sugar. They had to be completely cool before dipping again, covering the cookies thoroughly. While I waited I ate one. I wasn’t scolded. Continue reading

I don’t remember

I should remember more because it is one of the few half-decent memories I have of my dad. It’s half decent because I was 13 and he drank but the deal was I’d get to go shopping in Vancouver and we’d go see a Canucks’ hockey game together. I don’t remember my mom offering words of warning or wisdom in case he started drinking. No asking “Do you want to go?” No saying “You don’t have to go.” Continue reading

Hallowed ground

My mother stood behind her brother and sister-in-law watching them mourn their two long-dead children. He stood with his arm around his wife’s shoulders, her head down, Kleenex dabbing under her glasses. They were in a graveyard, a brief stop on a nostalgia tour for my mom, visiting all her old hometowns in Iowa and Wisconsin during the 1920’s and ‘30’s. Witnessing her brother weeping, she was uncomfortably wedged between tombstones and second hand grief. Continue reading

The creature

SpitSunset
Comox, British Columbia – Canada

The 5:00 a.m. wake up call, a dull punch on the right side, doesn’t piss me off as much as it used to, but I’d like to get rid of it. It comes from the inside, like a creature is thrashing its way out. I parry the second blow with determined words:  “Settle down” I say. “I’m happy which means you’re happy, so lighten up.”  I employ my lifelong philosophy with the creature: Fake it ‘til you make it. Continue reading

Driving aimlessly – revising the past (Letters, Part II)

ComoxMy mother wrote me dozens and dozens of letters after I moved away from home. Her letters buck my assumptions that she was unhappy during my teen years on Vancouver Island. In the two decades since she died, my unconscious has been busy revising the past to suit my interpretation of her life which is, admittedly, filtered by what I needed from her. I think, as the shrinks say, I’ve been projecting my perceptions onto her life, making my thoughts hers. Continue reading