History

The Shroud of Mystery

/ Sarah / Leave a comment

As I mentioned before, The Bowery Girl is the latest version of The Bowery – a column I wrote for a community newspaper a lifetime ago.

Back then, as today, I wrote about pretty much anything I chose to. I think the editor was simply glad to have one less thing to assign me.

Regardless – I have always found humour in the damnedest places. Which is where one of my Mother’s favourite column came from. Since she learned I was “live” with my writing, she’s asked when I would share this one. I actually dove into the tote I stored my newsprint life in, but couldn’t find it.  So….for my Mom, I’m rewriting it….sheesh….

My Granny was my Dad’s mother. She was a tiny, tough, Englishwoman. Around her you WOULD drink tea (hence my life-long aversion to the beverage to this day), and you would be scolded for eating HER chocolate covered graham cracker cookies. Why she would bring these around two young girls and NOT think we would inhale them is beyond me. I’m sure she was distressed that my sister and I were not orderly and well-behaved as young ladies should be. We had the run of a farm with neighbours far enough away that they’d never hear your sister scream when you pounded the crap out of her……..ahem.  Around Granny you did NOT shout and you certainly did not use profanity. There’s a whole other entry on the time she heard my father in the barn over the intercom during a particularly stressful morning of chores…

When I was a teenager, Granny died. It was a blessing since she was suffering from a dementia and the last few years were difficult, especially for my father. Now organizing a funeral for a parent is stressful, but this funeral was becoming BRUTAL. Aside from the regular bureaucracy one has to go through when a hospital and nursing home are involved, there were the stipulations laid out by my Granny. We had to get her in the ground ASAP!

Let me explain….

When my Granny was a younger woman, her mother (my great-granny) would tell her daughters that when she died, she wanted to be buried in nothing but a shroud, “Just like our Lord Jesus.” What ever possessed her to decide this was never fully explained, but it was simply understood that these are her wishes. When Granny’s mother died, her sisters refused to bury the elderly woman naked, in a shroud, pointing out it was not “proper”.  So their mother was buried in a “proper” dress and “proper” pearls. Likely with appropriate shoes that had a modest heel. This outraged my Granny.

Therefore, she took on the concept. SHE would be buried naked in a shroud, “Just like our Lord Jesus.” This would honour her religious convictions, as well as her mother’s legacy.

<PAUSE>

Can I point out here that my Granny was ANGLICAN? In anything I have come to understand about religion, there aren’t too many Christian-based beliefs that required wrapping one’s dearly departed in a sheet to honour God. Judaism requires a quick burial, but I am aware of that rule being stretched to 48 and even 72 hours after death. But I only took Religion/Cult/Occult in college as an elective, so I don’t pretend to be an expert…

<PLAY>

When the time came to plan the funeral, my Dad was working as quickly as he could to ensure it was a quick turnaround. My aunt was trying to get back into the country, therefore the little “details” of the funeral were left to my Mother. And she was having some issues. We all knew that Granny wanted to be buried in a shroud “Just like our Lord Jesus”, but was having a really hard time envisioning this tiny frail woman being in the ground with nothing more on her than a bed sheet.

This is when “logic” kicked in.

Mom decides to dress Granny in one of the cozy track suits she wore in the nursing home. She picked the pink one, well, because, well, it’s a visual thing right? She can LOOK like she has nothing on. Then she comes into my room.

“I need a pair of socks,” she said.

“Oh, ok.” I said.

“Make sure it’s a pair you don’t plan on getting back,” she adds.

I give her a couple of pairs, which are deemed unsuitable. Finally I give her a pair of “pom-pom” socks. She picks a pair that are white with pink pom-poms. Even through my Granny is yet to be in the ground, I’m fairly certain she’s spinning.

So with the socks in hand, my mother collects the other items and they are delivered to the funeral home. Oh to be a fly on the wall when the undertaker saw what he’d have to put his latest client in. Thankfully, the casket is closed. Granny is in the ground JUST under the time frame allotted and we are all taking license with the “shroud” concept.

I have since told my mother that her mother-in-law would come back to haunt her for failing to deliver on the final request, and even suggested that she, herself, take on the idea. She’s not interested in being buried “Just like our Lord Jesus.” Guess that takes me off the hook!

We’ve all heard stories young women taken tragically and buried in their wedding dresses, or perhaps a teen who was a cheerleader being laid to rest in her uniform. Men can be buried in military or sport uniforms, or other apparel that has special significance to them.

So I can only imagine what someone might think, years later, if they ever had to open my grandmother’s coffin.

“Look Joe, this one was a GYMNAST!”

A Year Ago

/ Sarah / 5 Comments

A year ago, I couldn’t go to the back of my parents’ property to see the Trilliums.

That’s because a year ago, my father was going into the hospital. We missed a lot last year; the trees coming out in leaf, the magical ponds that appear only in the spring,

…we missed the little things that deserve our attention. We missed a lot.

But we were more afraid of missing the things that could have been. We were afraid of what might not be. We were lucky, blessed, if you will. A year ago things looked very bleak, or so we thought.

Six months ago, however, we found out what bleak was. But that was then and this is now. Six months can make a world of difference.

Today, I went for a tractor ride with my father. He worked. The fact that he could do so, well, there are no words.

We looked at the flowers, the magical ponds and admired that no matter what happens in nature, spring always has a way of giving us hope.

Sticks & Stones

/ Sarah / 6 Comments

When I was two years old, I fell down two stairs and broke my arm.

My mother said she was devastated, and felt like the worst mother EVER when she brought me home from the hospital with the World’s Smallest Cast. People gave her funny looks, openly judging this possibly “abusive” woman and her victim child. What makes this story a chuckle is that when my father tried the pull off pjs, he accidentally pulled off my cast, so thin was my wee arm. The loss of the cast traumatized me, she said, as I thought it was part of my body. Thankfully, at this point, the fracture was healed. My father’s self esteem; in pieces.

Then I broke my collar-bone. I was five and didn’t bounce that well off the back of my dad’s pickup truck when he was “keeping an eye” on me. I did well for a couple of years, and was almost injury free. In Grade 7 my mother and I tacked up for an after school ride. It ended abruptly after my horse launched me into a rock pile in the first few minutes. I remember hold up my fettucine limp right arm and exclaiming to my mother, “Yup, it’s broke.”

Due to complications with the break (I came to while it was being set, and screamed so loud my father burst into the treatment room – not a good scene.) they decided to keep me in overnight. When I finally dozed off hours later, my mother was by my side, still in the clothes she wore when we went for our ride. Maybe she was avoiding going home, where my father declared he was going, to shoot the horse that dislodged me. (Fear not, he didn’t.)

I honestly couldn’t appreciate what my parents felt, watching me in these various scenarios. Kids get hurt, bones break. Big deal – they heal! It seemed like they were over reacting. (I’m not going to bore you with the details of my adventures that resulted in stitches. Believe me, that list is just as long.)

Then I became a mother.

And I had to take First Born Son to the hospital for a broken collar-bone.

In fairness to me, there was A LOT of stress going around and some extenuating circumstances that made this particular visit more frustrating that in might have been.

The doctor was very good in dealing with FBS and was direct when he told me, “It’s broken.” But one look at that X-ray and I LOST. MY. EVER. LOVIN’. MIND. Something in my head snapped and I had such a rush of adrenaline that made me feel like I could have thrown the X-ray machine across the emergency department. I’m not even really kidding about that. I was sad, scared and pissed off all the same time. Stike that. I was just pissed off. This injury was ill-timed and unfair, and I was beside myself just thinking about the consequences for my child. I would gladly let the doctor break MY collarbone, if it meant my son wouldn’t have to suffer. I could feel the irrational anger getting the better of me, and so I sat down in the examination room to cool off before they brought FBS back to me.

And passed out.

When I came to, I was laying on the cot and FBS was staring at me, about two inches away from my face and a look of desperation I don’t think I’ve seen since. Yup, my kid’s first time in emerg and it becomes about me. Let me know when the trophies are being handed out, cuz I’m MOTHER OF THE YEAR!

Then just last Wednesday I was greeted by my beloved sons coming through the door. Instead of their regular chorus, I was lifted from my seat by Second Born Son’s blood curdling scream. Sobs and snot later, and we find out that just before he opened the door, he wrenched his arm badly and it is sensitive to the touch. He finally calms enough to tell me how much pain he’s in, and that he heard a “pop”. I’m thinking dislocated shoulder. Hooo-ray.

We get to emerg and the one doctor I never want to see again is on call. He ignores me and tentatively pokes at SBS. He says it looks like muscle damage, possibly a ligament. If’ it’s not better in two days, get an ultrasound, he said. We get a sling, instructions to make sure he takes it off to keep the muscles in the arm moving, and a hasty exit.

But my Mommy Sense is tingling. I don’t like what he said.

The next morning, I call my GP and he gets us in Friday afternoon. The upper arm/shoulder area is almost doubled in size. He advises to go ahead with the ultrasound, but suggests we add an X-ray.

Today we get into the first booking we can for an ultrasound, and the technician starts with the X-ray. We don’t need an ultrasound, because the first image tells the tale.

“It’s broke,” she said. I check myself – not going to lose my load this time am I??

NO.

Not only is it broken, but we have a complication and have to see a specialist. As the doctor reading the x-ray goes over the various possibilities, I find myself having a completely different conversation – with myself. It is harsh and rather one-sided.

“He’s gone five days with a broken arm. What the HELL kind of mother ARE you?”

“Why did I listen to the idiot doctor about taking the arm out of the sling??”

“It’s been almost a week and the best we could do for him was Children’s Advil!!!”

“Dear God, It’s Sarah. Can you take the broken arm from him and give it to me? Totally serious here, God!! Just let me get him home safely and you can do the arm!”

As sappy as I thought it was that my parents reacted the way they did when I was young, I realize that I’m no better worse. Looking at my child’s body when it is broken is easily one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. The fierce reaction I have to it, and the anger I direct at myself, is nothing short of primal. Your typical Momma Bear syndrome.

So it looks like I need to cut my parents some slack…

…and hope my kids do the same for me.

Yup, I brought him along for garbage picking. I'm tellin' ya, I've got a a spot on the mantel for my Mother Of The Year trophy!!!!

Letters that Need to be Written – Part I

/ Sarah / 1 Comment

Dear 2011,

I thought this letter would be really hard to send you, but I think this is really going to be the best thing for the both of us.

We’re done.

We started a year ago with a lot of promise. I was hopefully for what you had in store for me and excited with what lay ahead. When January finally arrived and I was laid off my job, I was disappointed, but chose to take the high road and make lemonade out of lemons. The Big Guy was happy with his new job, and I figured, it was time for me to re-evaluated some things. Everyone around me was so supportive – “It’s just a matter of time,” they said, “You’ll be back to work before you know it.”

But I wasn’t.

I worked my butt off. No job. I stuck with you because it was early in our relationship. How bad could it be?

Silly me.

In February we found out The Farm was sold. A part of my heart died and my soul has ached ever since. We had two months to get used to the idea but with each passing day it was just more painful. Next my father was given scary news. The Big C had come to his little world and surgery was needed.

Easter came and we received more bad news – The Big Guy’s mom was very ill and it wasn’t going to get better. The following week we said our first good bye to The Farm. The next week, my father went under the knife. Four hours later, he was conscious and as sarcastic as ever, and I went home to pass out after the stress of  the day. Within three days, my sons buried their granny.

In the summer, Samson failed and we were faced with the incredibly difficult choice of letting him go. At this point there was so much snot and tears that I started getting the feeling that you and I might not be the best fit.

I gave you some slack when we found Roman. There was a glimmer of hope there. I was willing to give you another chance.

I was so distracted with freelancing and looking for work that the weeks flew by. We found ourselves wrapping up our long goodbye to The Farm. The pain of this was eased somewhat by the fact that I now had a freakin’ job. While the training for the new position had me questioning my sanity, intelligence level and the ulterior motive of my new employer, I was successful.

I was ready to be positive, honestly, I was, but for some reason it was too hard. My Dad, who appeared to be doing well over the summer, started to fail. It was getting very scary and by October, he was in emerg almost as much as he was at home. I knew I had it with you when November rolled around. The scare we had with him was profound and life altering. We nearly lost him. I decided I couldn’t find a glimmer of hope in our relationship, 2011. You and I needed to take a break.

I know you were trying to extend an olive branch to me last week, when doctors gave  Dad the news that he was Cancer free. However, he is far from healthy and we are doing everything we can to get him stronger.

I will look back on the afternoons under the trees with family and friends. I will cherish the warm weather we had while I worked outside. I would have liked a day or two at the beach, but I think I’m going to try that next year.

That’s right. I’ve found someone new. I’m excited about the opportunities that are presenting themselves again. I’ve learned a lot in the time you and I spent together. I will not ask myself “How much worse can it get?” because the answer is chilling. I will take it one day at a time. I look forward to feeling positive again. The next 12 months have made no promises to me, and I’m okay with that.

So, I hope you can let me go and allow me to move one. In time I’m sure I’ll recall more fond memories, but for now, I need time.

And his name is 2012.

Sarah

The Ache

/ Sarah / 1 Comment

I am the first to admit, I’ve had a blessed life. Sure, I’ve experienced disappointment and frustration, but I’ve managed to avoid the type of sorrow that leaves an ache in your heart.

Until now.

I’ve mentioned before about the special connection The Big Guy and I have with The Farm. We’ve put The Farm in the middle of our world, from being the first place we took our children to after we brought them home from the hospital, to taking the liberty of enjoying the view, history and even equipment. It is where we met and we had dreams of one day making it our home. This was not to be.

Saturday was the auction. Generations of possessions were sold to the highest bidder. There was an erryness to the exercise, watching bobsleds and snowshoes being snapped up by strangers who would no doubt dust them off and mount them in their own homes, or God Forbid, in a restaurant somewhere. Claiming this family’s history as their own – it seems so false.

For me, already tightly wound emotionally and apprehensive for my three “boys”, it seemed the comments made by some strangers were too painful to bear.

“What are you looking for Fred?”

“Nothin’, I just had to come and check this out. This is history you know. It’s a Century Farm. Can you believe that? The family is just letting it go?”

I grit my teeth and keep walking.

“Look at that house, it’s something else. I can’t imagine letting something like that fall out of the family.”

But the worst were the most pointed comments. One directed right at me.

“Hey, Sarah! Why didn’t you and The Big Guy buy The Farm?”

The urge to become physical was difficult to overcome. I must confess – I was not classy about my response, but suffice it to say I cleared the air regarding the fact. Sometimes pain cannot be contained. It surfaced once again later in the day, as First Born Son did us proud and was hoisting his family’s artifacts for bidding. A couple beside me began a conversation about the boy in the green shirt.

“Look at him, isn’t that sad?” said the First Ignorant Person.

“Who? The kid with the green shirt?” said the Second Ignorant Person.

FIP – “Yes, look at him up there, you can just tell he loves being here.”

SIP – “Umhum.” (In agreement)

FIP – “It’s too bad he’ll never be able to have this place. Can’t imagine.”

Yup, I snapped.

Pissed off Mother – “Are you talking about the kid with the green shirt?”

FIP – startled “Uh, yes…”

POM – “Well that’s my son – and I can tell you, we had NO say in the future of the farm.”

The look on my face, and the tone of my voice, shut the conversation down.

My pride of FBS was matched by that for Second Born Son. While he was given the boring and then frantic job of directing traffic, he was then appointed the task of running bid sheets from the auction site back to the trailer where the clerk would reconcile the amounts bid against the funds paid. He did such a good job that the man who was recording the bids and giving them to SBS said in all the auctions he’s done, he’s never had such a young man do such a good job. He even made a point of stopping before he left to compliment The Big Guy and myself. We had every reason to feel proud.

That pride resurged when Uncle B gave FBS the keys to the Massey Ferguson and the John Deere. The auctioneer needed each tractor started to demonstrate that they were in sound shape. FBS was the last member of our family to start those tractors. When the auction ended and the new owners were claiming their purchases, FBS stood by the tractors, helping them with small details and then standing forlornly as each one drove away. The sight of him standing there, watching those tractors leave will haunt me, such was the expression on his face.

I have taken well over 1000 photos of the farm to document a place that has a special place in our hearts. I want to have something for us to look at later, and perhaps show future generations. Mostly, I don’t want the boys memories to dim.

 Because we didn’t want to leave that day – afraid of what leaving would mean, I asked Second Born Son if he wanted to take some more pictures of his favorite place, the hay mow. Many adventures have been lived in this mow. It’s the place SBS asks to go to every time we are at The Farm. Now most of the bales are gone, but a handful remained, and with the sun sinking lower in the Western sky, it was a perfect opportunity to shoot something special that would mean something to him.

And while I hope this photo brings him joy, I can’t help but feel The Ache getting even stronger.

This post is going live early May 2, 2011. The Farm will officially be sold today.

The Farm

/ Sarah / Leave a comment

We’ve had a pretty significant development here in Boweryville. The Farm is Sold.

“The Farm” is actually the homestead where The Big Guy’s ancestors purchase property from The Crown and made a parcel of what would eventually become 300 acres. Right now, Uncle B lives there and as he is a bachelor – it’s a big six-bedroom house that seems empty. It is a stone farmhouse, as was common in that area of the province, but what wasn’t common was the workmanship.

This hutch is in what would have been the dining room. It’s now the “Parlour” except, no one uses parlours any more. I don’t even have the shot to the floor and you can see floor mouldings. They are at least a foot high.

This was a home built by a family after a great deal of struggle and toil. The matriarch of the time watched her dream home being built and, if she was like any other woman I know, longed for the day she could move in and enjoy her modern conveniences. She died the first night she slept in the house.

There are countless stories to be told of lives lived within these wall. Each of The Big Guy’s aunts and uncle, including his father, were born in this house – likely in the room next to the kitchen. This is the same room people were laid out in for views following their deaths.

The view off the front porch is nothing short of breathtaking.

This is the place where I met The Big Guy. A large part of our dating life was lived out here. This is the first road trip we brought each one of the boys when they came home from the hospital and some of our fondest memories were lived out on the field above. It is, without a doubt, one of the best toboggan hills you will ever go down.

The reasons behind the sale are not mine to share, but I can tell you that being here always felt good. Just about every memory I have of being here is funny or warm. A psychic once confused this for my family farm, saying, “But you want to live there – it’s a part of YOU.”

Perhaps it’s because it is two farms away from the farm I grew up on. That house also had a fabulous view. The feeling about this place, however, is hard to describe. I feel the history in the woodwork. I have an overwhelming urge to touch the stones. It’s like The Farm has a life of its own and it actually speaks to some of us.

While we knew The Farm was “for sale” in the most casual definition of the phrase, it couldn’t prepare us for the news that it was sold. First Born Son has always had a special place in his heart for The Farm. He was born a generation too late, but he has the patience and passion for farming. The Big Guy, who actually went to Agricultural College because of his love of The Farm, was also hit hard. Second Born Son was never interested in being a farmer, but loved the idea of the fantasy world he could create in the hay mow; the interaction with the cattle and the mystique the “oldness” the barn represented.

We seriously considered taking over The Farm and spoke to Uncle B about it before we had FBS. It would have involved one or both of use giving up a kidney. It was not meant to be.

While the reasons behind the sale are not for me to share, I feel like time is slipping away. We have been visiting The Farm at least once a week for the past month. We only have one  month left. FBS gets quiet when he thinks about The Farm and how he’s never going to work the land there again. He’s been blessed to enjoy two summers where he’s actually lived at The Farm with Uncle B for a couple of weeks. We’ve tried to tell him it’s a blessing he had that time at all, but for him, it’s a taste of what he can never have.

It’s a bittersweet time for the entire family. The end of an era is nigh and as the deadline draws near, it will be come increasingly emotional for all of us.

Until then, I’m taking an offensive amount of photos. Uncle B laughs at me for my interest in cobwebs and nails.

But there’s a beauty in these images. It’s the heart of the farm I want to capture for us for when we can’t be there to feel it.