In threes

This post has been stuck in limbo inside my head and my heart for some time.  I have felt stuck and unable to write ... about anything, really, and it took me some time to figure out why.  I have come to the conclusion that there were three related events that rattled my sense of self, which in turn seemed to stunt my creativity.  Each event is related to a tangible part of my past, each of which recently left my possession for a time.  It has felt almost as if I needed to have all the parts of me back together before I could get any of my thoughts out on paper. 

I’ve had some free time lately and have been working my way through the house, organizing and rummaging through closets and old boxes, which led to me looking through some of my dad’s things.  A couple of months ago I uncovered enough slides, negatives and old photographs to take advantage of a deal through Black’s where they would convert them to digital format, saving me the effort of doing them myself “one day”.  So off they went, with the promise of safe return in 6-8 weeks. 

The order came in about a month ago and the results are awesome.  I can’t wait to show my sister the slide photos that my dad took at her wedding when we are together later this week – I am sure she’s never seen most of them! 

Cheeky smile!

Also, it seems that my penchant for taking random nature shots comes to me honestly; my dad had a keen eye for beauty in the ordinary.  I think it’s incredible how you can learn so much about someone even after they are gone. 



Winter street in Sault Ste. Marie





How awesome is this picture of my parents?



In the same bout of rummaging I found a box of old film reels.  Some were unmarked, but many had my dad’s handwritten descriptions such as, “Dance recital 1979” and “Baby 1974” (that’s me!)  I brought them to a local multimedia company, a true one-man band of media conversion, who agreed to convert them to Blu-Ray for me.  As of today I am still waiting for the film order to be complete, but I recently spoke with Mr. One Man Band and he said that it’s nearly finished and looking good.  I promise to share some of the footage when it’s safely back in my hands. 

In the midst of this walk down memory lane, my dad’s watch stopped working.  My mom gave my dad this watch on December 25, 1972 as both a Christmas gift as well as a “new dad” gift, as it was the date she was due with me (I didn’t make an appearance until January 18^th – poor mom!)  My dad wore the watch every day, in the roughest of work environments, wearing through several watchbands in the 36 years he wore it.  I’ve only had it for 3 years, and it’s given me a run for my money (much like I did to my dear old dad, no doubt!)  I wear it when I need to feel close to my dad, when I’m travelling on the highway (for some reason it makes me feel safe), and sometimes just for fun. 

At first I didn’t worry when the watch stopped, as popping in a new battery has always been the solution.  Unfortunately this was not the case this time.  When the jeweller came out of the back room gingerly holding the watch with a sad look on his face, I knew the news was not good.  I realize the metaphor here is heavy-handed, but I swear that I felt the same sense of dread that one feels getting bad news about a loved one’s medical condition.  He explained that the reason for the watch stopping seemed to be a mystery, but that they might be able to find someone who could fix it.  Otherwise might I consider putting the watch in a shadow box or display case?  I am sure that I don’t have to tell you my answer.  So I signed a waiver allowing the watch to be shipped off-site and held my breath. 

Weeks went by and finally the phone call came – my watch was fixed!  I won’t lie, the repair was not cheap, but it was totally worth it.  The jeweller replaced the glass cover as well and the watch looks sparkly and new.  And it’s nearly 40 years old.  There’s another metaphor in here somewhere, I’m sure of it.  

A little faith

A couple of weeks ago Madeleine came home from her Sparks meeting excitedly clutching two little plastic cups of dirt.  Personally, I was somewhat less excited about the dirt part.  She explained that her leader Kelly had tasked them with planting and caring for seeds that would grow into plants. 

With the exception of the dirt-in-the-house situation, I loved this project.  When I was in grade school, every year my dad would come to my classroom armed with a tray full of Black Spruce seedlings and a lesson about tree planting and the environment.  At the end of the lesson, each of my classmates took home a baby tree in a little plastic cube, with instructions to plant it in a wide open space.  I like to imagine that some of these trees are still standing today in backyards and fields throughout Sault Ste. Marie. 

Madeleine has taken her task very seriously, and every day she waters her dirt and checks for signs of life.  After a week went by with no action, I started to worry that the seeds might not grow.  I wasn’t there when the seeds were planted, so I had to take her word for it that her seeds actually made it INTO the cup.  Madeleine reassured me, and said that Kelly told the Sparks it would probably take about two weeks for the seeds to sprout.  "Trust me, Mom, Kelly said so." 

One day the unthinkable happened: when Madeleine was watering her plants, she accidentally knocked one of the cups onto the floor, spilling dirt everywhere (the horror!).  She immediately looked at her father and I with big eyes and devastation moving across her face.  We quickly assured her that the seed was probably fine, that sometimes it’s okay to shake things up a bit.  She put the cups back on the counter near the window, putting faith in the fact that we were right. 

Another week went by and still nothing.  I was starting to feel a little devastated myself.  My experience as a parent includes a frequent struggle to balance my girls’ happiness with the occasional need for them to learn a “life lesson”.  (To be fair, there aren’t a lot of life lessons happening for Stella yet, but you just wait little girl!)  I will admit that I had a moment of desperation where I considered shoving a couple of little seeds into the dirt to fudge the results (with apologies to my scientist father), but in the end I decided this kind of life lesson was manageable for a six-year old. 

I got out of bed this morning and went to check on the cups and was surprised and delighted to see the tiniest little bud opening up above the dirt in one of the cups!  I gently moved both cups away from the cat’s perch on the window ledge (there is an elaborate backstory about Monty and his fondness for houseplants which I will leave to your imagination) and went to wake up Madeleine. 

When I shared the good news with Madeleine, she burst out of bed and ran to the window to check on her little seed.  “See?”, she said, “See?  I told you it would grow!”.  Oh ye (me) of little faith. 

What type of seeds they are remains unclear, but I suspect we will have our answer in a few weeks.  You can bet we’re going to plant this little seedling, whatever it is. 

Life lesson averted.  Well, altered, actually.   

http://youtu.be/8UkKTlzyLhQ
A little John Hiatt for good measure. 

The funeral

My dad didn’t want a funeral.  He didn’t want a viewing, a visitation, or any other formal gathering that would bring people together to mourn him.  Although he respected the ceremony of funerals in general and certainly attended many in his life, it was no secret that this was not something he wanted for himself.  Further, my dad did not want to be buried or to have a headstone or other placeholder to mark his existence.  One cremation please, and that’ll be everything, thanks. 

It’s a big decision, a bold gesture, although it is becoming the new trend in deaths, apparently.  Despite this, I can tell you that it makes it very hard on the people left behind who may not have the closure that it turns out is critical to moving on. 

I respected my father’s wishes and upheld them as best I could.  I kept a brave face and made the arrangements with the funeral home to carry out my father’s instructions.  I drove home with the box of my father’s ashes in my car, sealed in a plastic box and protected in a fabric bag, not unlike the old Crown Royal bags (my father would have loved this). 

My dad never specified anything past the cremation part, so I made up the rest according to what I thought he would have wanted.  So, James and I bundled ourselves and 3-year old Madeleine into the car and we headed up north (way up north) to scatter his ashes.  Quick aside – you know how carefully you drive with your children in the car?  That’s nothing compared to how carefully you drive with your parent's ashes in the car.  

The three (four?) of us made stops in Coldwater, Sault Ste. Marie, Old Woman Bay, Wawa, Chapleau and Timmins, leaving some of my dad’s ashes in each place.  Our time at Old Woman Bay was especially poignant, as I have many memories of my family picnicking and playing on the beach there over the years.  There is nothing that illuminates the importance of living in the moment more than imagining your children scattering your ashes in the place where you are playing with them. 

Although it was early April, we drove through a blizzard between Wawa and Timmins, which closed the highways leading out of the city in all directions.  We lost visibility of the highway a few times and as we passed “closed for the season” signs on the fly-in fishing places along the desolate highway, I like to picture my Dad watching us, wondering where he went wrong to raise a daughter who would attempt such a crazy trip, “Sure kid, take my ashes north, but maybe wait until the summer?” 

So 18 months later, with 9-month old Stella along for the ride this time, we drove up to Cochrane and went just a little further to Wade Lake, where I spent many summers with my parents in a trailer by the lake while my dad worked.  This was the place that was the most special to my dad, and it truly is a journey to get there.  We couldn’t find it on a map (it comes up as “Wade Lake, Cochrane, Unorganized, North Part, ON”) and since we’d been without cell service for several hundred kilometres, we stopped into the local Canadian Tire, where someone drew us a little sketch with directions to Wade Lake (taking customer service to a whole new dimension). 

In this beautiful setting, I laid the last of my dad’s ashes to rest in a sunny spot among the trees, with an unparalleled view of the lake.  I was surprised to find that I finally was able to feel the closure that I needed, knowing that although I have no headstone to visit and no funeral card to hold, I have these beautiful places where my dad’s ashes are scattered that bring me peace. 

I did my best to make my dad proud.  There have been a few times when I questioned whether I did the right thing, whether I should have allowed our family and friends to come together to grieve my father.  Then I hear my dad’s voice at various points in my life jokingly threatening to go live the rest of his days “out in a shack in the bush”, and I am reminded that that truly would have been the last thing he would have wanted. 

My dad spent his adult life in the bush, working for Forestry Canada.  When I was little I used to tell people that my dad “fixed trees”, which I guess he did, if you think in more global terms.  He put his heart and spirit into his work, and was truly never happier than when he was in the middle of nowhere, collecting samples, analyzing results, making predictions and of course, hanging out with the trees.  We would drive up the highway to Wade Lake, and every now and then he would point out to a random tree (I swear, literally in the middle of nowhere) and say “See that tree?” and proceed to tell you a story about its history and its impact on his work. 

It’s been three years since I last saw you Dad, in that time I’ve learned more about you through photographs and the people and things you left behind.  I am proud to be your daughter.  You lived an incredibly vibrant life and I can only hope that I leave the kind of impression on my children that you did on me.  I think about you every day and although it’s getting a little easier to talk about you without tearing up, I still miss you so much.  I am sure the trees miss you too.  I believe that your spirit is somewhere out in a little shack in the bush, where your heart always was.