Buckle Up

A conversation I had with a coworker today got me thinking.

He was talking about his daughter celebrating her birthday today and somehow that led to a comparison of how our children live today in contrast to how we lived growing up. And that got me to thinking...

As far as I can tell, it's a miracle that any of us are still alive. We rode with no bike helmets, in cars with no seat belts, no car seats. For those who had parents with vans, take the seats out and sit on the floor so you can stretch out and play... even better. If they had a pick-up truck, well yee-haw, jump in back and let the wind sing to you for the ride. Our parents let us play in dirt all the live-long day and except for the obligatory before meals wash-up and end-of-day bath, we were never clean. We lived in rooms with lead paint, had mercury in our fillings, and I for one spent countless Christmas holidays driving to and from Florida with my two chain-smoking parents in the car... windows rolled up... without my seatbelt on. Not to mention the other 16 years in the smoke-filled house.

We left to "go outside and play" first thing in the morning, checked in at lunch (sometimes) and came home right after the street lights came on.

We didn't have cell phones, pagers, BlackBerrys or anything of that nature to check in with home or have them check in on us. If we were really lucky we had walkie-talkies that reached around the corner of the house on a good day with fresh batteries.

Look both ways before you cross the street... Don't talk to strangers.... As far as I can recall, those were the nuggets of safety-based wisdom that were drilled into us... Oh ya, and that wacky "don't do drugs" movie in grade seven health class that had those crazy kids thinking the burner on the stove was really a flower. That didn't end well.

And yet here we are... no worse for wear (well, maybe a little bit but really not much).

Knowing all we know now about the dangers that surround us, and what we used to "pull off" when we were younger, no wonder we've become so protective of our children and aware of our surroundings. How could we not be? I can't imagine, as a parent, not worrying constantly about my boys... and I know in their own ways, our parents worried constantly about us (although I'm not sure what about).

But oh how I loved having the whole day to fill with adventures.

From Dad

This past Mother’s Day, as a mother myself, I reflected on the lessons that I learned from my mother and the lessons I had tried to pass on to my sons. Now, facing Father’s Day without my own dear dad and as my sons enjoy it with their own dear dad, I am reflecting again.

I have been without my dad since I was 21. I was young and in a very unhappy place when he died and I felt then that I lost him when I needed him most. As the years and decades have passed, I realize now that I was almost right then. It was a huge loss to me when he died, but at the same time, it was the only way that I could have moved forward in a way that would ensure my happiness and that of my wonderful little boy. So move on I did, in the absence of the one form of support that I could always count on.

My dad taught me a lot.

Now again, I am not so naïve to think, even with the fading of the sharpness of my past to believe that my dad was without faults. He, like all of us, had his share. He was an alcoholic, he worked hard and spent very little time at home with his family except, as the good Catholic he was, on Sundays. He kept his feelings deeply hidden except when he was angry with my sister or me, or our mother for that matter. He withheld affection and even communication when he was angry and he could be angry for days at a time.

But despite all that, I feel my dad was a wonderful man and I’ll tell you why. My dad saved me. I have mentioned before that I was adopted at the age of two and for as long as I can remember my dad would sit me on his knee (or anywhere nearby when I grew too big) and tell me in great detail the story of how he found me. Keep in mind that I was a two year old, cross-eyed, uncoordinated little girl… hardly high up on the adoptability scale. But he would tell me how he walked around the place where I Iived, looking at all the pretty, perfect little girls that played there, and chose me. I am sure that it didn’t actually happen that way, but he let me believe it did.

And that gave me an enormous sense of being wanted in a home that gave all indications to the contrary. That was the one lesson that was the most important of all; that I was loved. He told me so, often. He would not let me leave home without kissing him on the cheek and telling me he loved me (unless, as I said he wasn’t speaking to me… this I can forgive).

And he told me, in the most embarrassing of ways and at the most embarrassing of times, that no guys I knew were good enough for me. Not a lesson that stuck unfortunately, but a lesson worth repeating by any parent when you see your child going down a path that you know will end in sorrow.

So, my dear dad, in the relatively short time we had together, gave me the best gifts, taught me the most important lessons.

And as it turns out… he was there when I needed him the most. He found me and saved me, that cross-eyed, uncoordinated little girl, and that made everything else possible.

Dinner With the Sister

I had dinner at my sister's tonight. That may not sound like an event of note but in my family, with my background it's nothing short of astounding.

We grew up, the two of us, in unusual circumstances. Circumstances not conducive to positive emotional or spiritual growth. Circumstances that left their marks, not pleasant ones, on each of us. Marks that we have carried in different ways but that have changed the course of our respective lives none the less.

It has been almost eight years since my sister and I had anything that could even generously speaking be called a relationship. The last conversation I remember having with her was at the graveside of our mother and that did not go well. But we are trying to forge a new relationship based on new common ground now, eight years later. I wish I could tell you it is because of my initiative but it is not. If it had been left to me, she and I would still not be talking and I would have carried on feeling quite fine with that.

But she took the initiative, she felt the need to mend fences, bandage old wounds and try to move forward. And I commend her for that. Especially when faced with the trepidation that I have expressed as we have been going through this process.

It is not easy by any stretch and it is at times ridiculously awkward when you consider we lived together in the same home for years. But that is what it's like now and it eases just a bit each time we meet. Tonight I went to her home to have dinner with her and her husband. We talked a lot of small talk and kept things light which was fine by me. And then in the middle of setting the table we stumbled on the ultimate common denominator... the one topic that we could discuss without dredging up any painful memories or hurt feelings. The Partridge Family.

She immediately brought out her complete set of Partridge Family collector cards and we reminisced on how much we loved David Cassidy then and now and forever more while we listened to "I Think I Love You" on her Partridge Family cd (my sister has a few minor eccentricities). She suggested we could even sing along (I on the other hand am more inclined, as I suggested, to crank it up and get up and dance) so in the interest of common ground, we sat at the dinner table, to her husband's great chagrin, and sang with them.

I think the thing with old wounds is that sometimes you just need to cut away all the scar tissue and try to let the new growth come through. It's not going to look the same but it's better than being bound up by the pain.

Ferris Wheels and Memories

The funniest thing happened today (not on the way to the forum but funny none-the-less). I was updating my status on Facebook (a happy little task I can perform from my cell phone which gives me no end of pleasure as I get comments and responses from my assortment of Facebook friends) with what, I thought was a unique comment on what I was doing.

If there is anyone out there... anyone at all, who is not aware of how Facebook works, in addition to accumulating friends, applications, groups, fans, messages, pokes as well as countless other seemingly unrelated pieces of information or detail which, when pieced together, weave an interesting portrait of who you are, you can also update your status. It is a short, one-line sentence which lets your friends and observers know what you're up to.

My update went like this:

Sally is... wondering if she can justify riding the ferris wheel all afternoon.

I thought nothing more about it.

If you are wondering why I was wondering such an odd thing on a Tuesday afternoon, I was delightfully surprised to find, right in the middle of my territory, a mini-carnival set up in a mall parking lot. Complete with, amongst many other enticements, candy floss and the aforementioned ferris wheel.

And as I said, once I posted the status update I gave it no more thought. It wasn't long however, before I got my first response questioning a ferris wheel in the middle of the day in the middle of an urban core. Then another. Mid-way through my afternoon, the best question of all came through my in-box.

What's a ferris wheel?

Before you read any further, I challenge you to, off the top of your head, define a ferris wheel. To someone who lives in Sweden. Without speaking Swedish.

Some of the biggest delights I have with my Facebook profile are the new connections I have been fortunate to make with people all over this earth. I have new friends in the UK, Venezuela, Egypt, Denmark, Poland, Norway, South Africa, Germany as well as dotting the United States and my beloved Canada. What a wonderful thing that is! I am blessed with friendships I can't imagine having forged otherwise. And I am blessed to have someone to talk to at just about any hour of the day or night (no small miracle for someone who spends countless hours awake and alone like I do).

And so my challenge of the day was to define a ferris wheel to my Swedish friend. I could use none of the descriptions that immediately came to mind; the place where Danny S. kissed me and I fell hopelessly for him when I was 15 years old... the best place in the world to see the view of the Woodstock Fair... the place where I had to bury my oldest son's face deep in my coat to stop him from screaming when he was a tiny boy, while we rode for what seemed an eternity. So many memories and none would translate.

I muddled through I think, with a lame attempt at describing it visually and making some reference to the Eye of London (it is called the Eye isn't it... if not that would explain why I haven't heard back from my friend).

But I challenge you to come up with your own best ferris wheel memory. I bet you have some that will bring a smile to your face... as mine did to me.