EVIL MOTHER versus EVIL DAUGHTER

Several years ago, my sister gave me a t-shirt that read...

“Be kind to your children. They will choose your nursing home.”

It was cute, it was sarcastic, and I liked it.

Little did I know the lively discussions it would spark between

me and my youngest daughter.

She has lived with me for a long time. She knows me well.

My daughter also excels in pushing my buttons and with great glee I should add.

She will never let me forget that she knows where to find them as easily

as if they were tattooed across my forehead.

My story is a sad one....

You see... I bear the scars of a child who grew up in a house

where all genre of police shows were highly favoured by my own mother.

I have never forgiven her for this.

Yes, never did a day go by without having to endure shows such as

F.B.I., Dragnet, Mod Squad, Hawaii 5-0, Perry Mason, Rockford Files,

Mannix, Kojack, Cannon, Police Woman, Adam 12,

Streets of San Fransisco and on and on....

I hated them all.

Any given night during the sixties and early seventies

would be a plethora of “Book’em Danno’s” and “Just the facts ma’am”.

Don’t get me wrong, they were well written, had great actors.

I'll admit they were... well, ..... okay.

However, it grew to be a bit much as the years fell away.

On the other hand, I’ve always loved Star Trek and science fiction

became a favourite genre of mine when deciding what shows to watch as an adult.

Then one day, my daughter gave me horrible news...

“Mom,” she said to me, “I am going to pick you out a nursing home

that plays nothing but Matlock reruns.”

I was shocked.

What kind of loving child would subject their mother to such torture?

“You don’t really mean that.” I replied, trying to keep my worry in check.

“Yes... I do. And no Star Trek will be allowed either, just Matlock,”

she replied with her beautiful smile.

Well, it didn’t take long before I countered her threat with one of my own.

For many years, I have actively pressed her to take up knitting with me,

but my petitions in this regard have always been denied.

“Knitting is evil,” was always her only response whenever I asked

if I could teach her how to knit.

And so, to get her back for putting me a home showing only Matlock reruns,

I informed her that I would be leaving my

entire knitting needle collection

solely to her, all three boxes of them.

No, I don’t have an accurate count of them

as there are so many more important things to do in life

rather than counting your knitting needles, wouldn’t you agree?

Anyway, she has informed me this past weekend

that should I carry out my threat and indeed leave

her my vast knitting needle collection,

she will only bury them all in her back yard.

I thought for a moment.

“Yes,” I answered her back, ...

“but an evil knitting needle tree would instantly grow

out of the ground and eat you alive.”

Now, my daughter is a horror movie aficionado,

and I have never seen her shrink away from a

hypothetically gruesome scene.

That is, until that very moment.

Now, you may ask...

“What kind of mother would wish an evil knitting needle tree

to grow out of the ground devour her child alive?”

This mother would, but only if her daughter forced her to watch

nothing but Matlock during her declining years.

Sadly, I can only imagine what kind of stories

she will be telling her children about me, their grandmother.

Like, for example...

• No sooner had she moved out of the house when her mother filled her old bedroom with an enormous yarn stash.

• How for Christmas and birthdays, all I ever wanted was more yarn.

• Or most sadly, when on a family holiday, I dragged everyone to the local area yarn store.
  

Yes...

I am an evil mother.

And I hope she never forgets it.

ANGELIC LESSON 101

Before my grandfather received the call to enter the ministry,
he was apprenticed to be a tailor.

Whenever he would come for an extended visit,
he would look for something to sew.

That would be how he kept busy.
He was always asking us
if there was anything that needed his attention.
And thus I would always find him sewing this and mending that.

Whenever I found him alone and sewing, I’d place myself at his knee,
and ask him to tell me a story.

His rule of thumb was always one story a day.
However, sometimes I managed to get as much as three stories out of him.

Good times.

This is one story that I never forgot.

After agreeing to tell me a story,
he always thought for a moment to decide which one he should tell.

“Do you remember the Easter story,” he asked,
as he returned his attention back to stitching a pant seam.

“Of course I do,” I answered back quickly.
“But Opa, (which is the name I called him,) …it’s not Easter.”

“That doesn’t matter now,” he said.
“Would you like me to tell you a story or not?”

“Yes Opa.”

“Okay, now, tell me what happened on Easter Morning?”

The answer was almost too easily for me.
He knew full well that I was well versed in the Easter story.
This was obviously leading somewhere. I decided to play along.

“The three women went to the tomb.” I answered.

“What did they see?”

“They saw that the stone had been rolled away
and that Jesus’s tomb was open.”

“What happened then?”

“There were angels sitting on the stone
and they told the women that Jesus was not there.”

I was beginning to get bored, but I tried not to let it show.
That would put any further stories in jeopardy.

He continued his story with, “What happened then?”

“The women went into the cave.”

“And what did they find?”

“Opa, can I have another story?”

“No, answer the question. Did they find Jesus in the cave?”

“No, he was not there, just like the angels told them.
They only found his burial cloth.”

Then at last came what would be Opa’s final question…

“And did they find Jesus’s burial cloth on the ground?”

“No,” I replied, “the women found it neatly folded lying on stone.”

All at once he dropped his sewing, raised his hand and playfully
pointed an accusing finger at me.

“And let that be a lesson to you,” he said gently chastising me.

"Angels are extremely neat and never leave anything lying on the floor."

"They always neatly fold and put everything back in their proper place.”


Lesson well learned.

Love letters

My grandmother was always a very busy and loving woman.

I didn't get to see her often, as she and my Grandfather lived in Germany where he served as a Baptist Minister.

During her extended stays while visiting our house, she was helpful with the cooking and ironing. She was also very good at sniffing out cluttered drawers or closets.

It was also a common scene to see her sitting at the kitchen table, writing amongst stacks of stationary and rolls of stamps.

"What are you doing?" I'd ask coming over to take a look.

"Writing a letter," she'd reply.

Indeed she was. Looking to the top of the letter in her hand, I read the word "Greetings..." which was how she began each of her letters. Next to this word she would place lots of stickers showing floral bouquets. In those days they were not the self-stick kind of stickers. You had to lick the back first. I can still remember their gluey tang. She had tons of them.

"To who are you writing a letter?"

"Someone who's in the hospital."

Content with her reply, I'd leave her to her writing.

A half hour later, I'd see her still writing.

"Is that the same letter?" I inquired.

"No, this is another one."

"To who?" I'd ask. I was a very nosey child.

"My friend."

"Is this friend in the hospital too?"

Without looking up and without breaking stride with her pen she replied...

"No, but this friend lives alone."

An so, this would go on all afternoon. By the time she was done, there were many sealed envelopes addressed to various countries overseas plus some going to the States. These envelopes too, were abundantly well stickered.

It was an enigma of sorts to me, a little girl, as to why she spent hours each day, writing all those letters when there were other fun things to do, like watch T.V., or play outside. And of course, there was the expense, as she was forever purchasing more stationary, more stamps, and more booklets of those beautiful little stickers.

Then at last, I remember the day I finally asked her...

"Do you write letters to EVERYBODY?"

"No," she answered.

"Then who do you write all these letters to?"

"I have alot of friends who either live alone at home, or are in a rest home. And then there are those who have to stay in the hospital for a very long time."

Still not satisfied, I decided to press her further.

"But why do you have to write them all letters?"

My Grandmother finally looked up from her writing and said to me...

"These are very loney people and everyone deserves to get a letter from time to time. Letters bring memories of happiness and friendship."

Then she said something to me that I will never forget, ... ever.

She said...

"I write them a letter... so that they at least get one."

~*~*~*

Postcard

"Tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it." ~ Anne of Green Gables


My daughter likes to quote that saying alot. Probably because she knows that it annoys me so much.

Mistakes are inevitable with me because I am truly flawed. My goal is to keep them to a minimum and learn from them when I can.

For my friends who get stressed over their mistakes, I relate the following true story.

Oppenheimer & Einstein developed the first nuclear bomb together without ever having met.

It was at last decided that a historical meeting would finally be arranged and only one photographer would be allowed to document the event. This photographer was best known from his work at Life magazine and was considered at the top of his field.

This meeting did not last long and was quickly over. Oppenheimer and Einstein would never meet again.

The photographer went back to his lab to develop the pictures for the blockbuster story.

Imagine his utter disappointment when he realized that he had neglected to remove the lens cap cover.

So, with that in mind, I refuse to be daunted by my future mistakes...

Bring it on....

The Pidgeon of Trevi

What comes to mind when you think of the Trevi Fountain of Rome?

Do you envision romance, ....beauty, ....art?

Well, imagine this if you can...

It is a hot September day in Rome. The sun beats down on the throngs of noisy people as they jostle for positon along a glistening pool that holds the world's most famous fountain.

And there I am, at the destination of my dreams.

And yet, it is not the woundrous fountain that has captured my imagination.

Rather, I stand as still as a statue swept up in the vision of a singular pidgeon who has settled atop a small island of stone just above the cool waters edge.

With head tucked under wing, it dozes blissfully unaware of the noisy chattering crowds, the gushing fountain, the smells, warm breezes, and hot sun.

Refusing to succomb to the Trevi madness, this winged creature has decided to follow it's own bliss.

After some time, I walked away from the fountain, content in the knowledge that this bird will never know of my presence.

And so, what crosses my mind when I think of the Trevi Fountain?

Two lessons well learned.

Postcard

Say the word postcard to me, and my heart immediately experiences a joyous spark.

That is because I consider postcards as a wonderful means of conveying greetings, experiences, thoughts, and ideas.

Is it any wonder that I continue to collect them.

Today is January 1, 2010, and this is my first postcard to the web.

I do not blog because I feel whatever I write as worthy reading. Rather, I blog thinking that perhaps there might eventually be someone, who wants to know a little bit more about me, and how I got to be where I am.

First, and most importantly, I must tell you that I am not what you assume.

Are any of us?

Would it surprise you to know that at this very minute I am sitting in semi-pajamas at 3:00 pm, watching Apollo 13, while my daughter frets beside me fretting over her knitting. In a few minutes I will join her and we will both knit/fret together. Oldies music is blasting from the basement where my husband relaxes in his lair reminiscent of The Lone Gunmen from the X-files series.

Other things that might surprise you about me is that I am not one for small talk, I love to quote old movies and all things Star Trek. Quiet, contemplative solitude is precious to me.


One of my resolutions is to write more this year.

Stephen King wrote that all writers should strive to write one thousand words a day. For years, I've been trying to do that, but unsuccessfuly. I truly hope that keeping a blog will be instrumental in helping me keep this resolution.

That's enough about me for now.

I have other things that need doing, as I'm sure you do too.

Happy 2010!

Yours truly,

Doris

Old Candles

I love candles.

Throughout my house, there are candles large and small that I have collected over the decades. My Christmas candles are particularly prized because all have come as gifts from departed loved ones.

What saddens me is that over the years, the older candles have lost a portion of their colourful charm. Their smooth texture has taken on a dusty grain.


Each year, as I place them about the house I question myself as to why they remain unused. Perhaps it would have been better if they had been put to use while they were still vibrant and new.

Maybe so.

However, what sets my heart aglow is the fact, that the moment I decide to take a match to it's waiting wick it will burn brightly, no matter how old, faded or dusty it may be.

Like these candles, I too grow older. And as oncoming years fade and dust my exterior, I have one resolute hope. May my family and loved ones always know without a doubt, that like these old candles, when lit, I will always have the potential to burn brightly into the night.