Dora and her friend Max were sitting on the front porch just talking. Dora told him she couldn’t wait for her birthday to come so she could blow out her candles after making a wish.
“Dora, my Mom showed me a different way to make a wish any time we want to.”
“How do you do that, Max?”
He told her that since they were both too young to light matches to light a candle in order to make a wish, his mother showed him a safe way to make a wish any time he wanted to.
“So, How Max? You didn’t say how?”
Max grabbed Dora’s hand and took her out to the backyard. He told her to look for some dandelions that weren’t yellow anymore. The two walked slowly around the yard, going in a different direction with their search. After a short while, Dora yelled out, “Found some Max, come quick.”
Max made his way to where the swing set was and sat on the grass next to Dora, looking down at a bunch of dandelions that had large white tops.
“Good job, kid.”
“So now, what do we do now, Max?”
He instructed Dora to carefully pick one of the dandelions without losing the ball of white stuff on the top.
Dora took in a deep, deep breath as she carefully broke off the stem from its roots and held it in front of her.
“Now what, Max?”
He told her to make a quiet wish and then gently blow on the dandelions white top.
Dora closed her eyes and made a wish. Then she blew all of the white puff balls off the dandelion. She watched as they blew all over the yard.
“Do you think my wish will come true, Max?”
Wait and see. My Mom says it really works. “Now, my turn.”
When I was a child, my English Mother told me about the fish pond in the back garden of her childhood home. No one I knew had a fish pond and it added to the exotic appeal her home, which even had a name, Icona, had to me. I wished when I grew up to have a house with a fish pond.
When I eventually bought my home, I was delighted to discover it had a fish pond, a concrete fish pond, probably built with the house in 1949. Well, it probably was not built as a fish pond exactly, as I slowly figured out. It was large and kidney shaped, measuring at least fifteen feet long and at points, six feet across. However, it had sloping sides so parts were shallow and no part was deeper than two feet. I think it was originally designed as a lily pond. And rather than a natural concrete colour, it was the aquamarine of a swimming pool.
There is a saying, “Be careful what you wish for,” the implication being the wish might not be exactly what you hoped for. I had wished for a fish pond, but strangely I had never owned fish, never thought about fish, knew nothing about fish. It took a while to dawn on me that if I had a pond fish, the pond was not deep enough to winter fish over. I would need an indoor aquarium with all the trimmings and some time to keep the fish clean and healthy. Still, in the early years, I was undaunted, even by the dreadful aquamarine paint, as besides a few fish, I planted water lilies whose lovely flowers and spreading leaves distracted from the swimming pool colour.
I did overwinter fish in a tank in the basement, surprisingly to me, with little fish loss. With spring, there was always a lot of cleaning to do after the winter had filled the pond with snow water and leaves that appeared despite a fall raking. Over some years too, the water lilies bloomed less and less as the surrounding trees grew more and more. I had to give up on the lilies which made me more aware of the dreaded colour of the pond. There followed a series of attempts, too painful and too boring to recount, to change the colour of the pond until I discovered a product called rubber cement for ponds. It changed the pond to a satisfying black colour, but the wonder product itself was not without issues of needing continued renewal, again too boring to recount.
With all this, you might wonder why I didn’t just have the pond filled in. Sometimes I wonder if it’s more the idea of having a fish pond than the reality. But ultimately, I think not.
It brings me joy to sit quietly and watch the fish swim freely. The pond is big enough that they seem to be exploring it, leisurely, alone or in a group. If fish can be happy, my fish are happy in the pond. I have replaced the water lilies with water hyacinths and pots of impatience in small pots that float in a styrofoam ring. There are no frogs around but dragonflies. Several kinds of birds come to the pond to drink and bathe. Robins particularly seem to like a good bath and will spend several moments wetting themselves and then fluttering off the water. The squirrels and the couple of resident chipmunks come to drink.
Recently I have had to rehome eight of my fish as they have grown, over the past five years, too big for the indoor tank. I knew this coming winter, they would be shoulder to shoulder for those long winter months. When I left the aquarium store where I was able to take them, I felt sadder than I ever thought I would.
The ancient sage, Aesop, advised to be careful what you wish for because you may get it- and get unexpected consequences. I truly get the unintended consequences. Though my pond may be no Walden Pond, it gives me lovely reflections.
I’ll be home for Christmas, you can count on it, I’ve been dreaming of it all year.
The quiet thump of a heartbeat engine, the brush of feather wings – so surrounding.
Woosh…
Take off…the most peaceful sound I have heard…
The landing…I still don’t feel like I have touched down it is so soft…the view? I can’t believe my eyes!
You should see how bright it is here…The Christmas tree ornaments – are pure shimmering crystals! There are real Angels here! Wow! Wait… the ones that sang to the shepherds on that Christmas Eve- are here! Yep…I’m supposed to tell you they’re all on Key! It’s true!
I can’t feel a thing here but peace, warmth, love- unimaginable love! I’ve never known anything like this.
Christmas in Heaven is something beyond anything you could ever fathom.
Wish you could see this place…you’ll just have to trust me…Search it out you won’t regret it.
Don’t be sad for me…if you could see and feel what I am now…you’d understand!
Take a second and look up tonight and find the brightest star…I’ll be sitting on it! I’ll give you a little twinkle….
You can count on it…
For the heart that never felt love on earth…you have found love everlasting …great joy has been brought to you this day…
This piece owes its first three lines to Anne of Green Gables and references a concert put on by Anne and her classmates for Christmas.
We had recitations this afternoon. Our last practice. I just put my whole soul into it. And now…
I am standing on the stage, holding my cardboard letter turned into me. My letter is M. I turn my letter to the audience and speak. My voice is loud, clear, and stilted. M is for magical- Santa coming down the chimney. Relief, I’ve said it all and now can look down the line as each classmate in turn flips over a cardboard letter, -E R R-, down the line, some yelling out their piece- C is for Christ, the reason for the season- or whispering- H is for holy, Oh holy night- some shocked into silence until loudly prompted behind the curtain- T is for turkey, roasted and stuffed- some giggle, some shuffle, some look down at their feet, until the final card is flipped, a large exclamation mark to signal everyone to shout, “Merry Christmas” and to allow little Evalina to take part. Evalina who is in grade two and who would be in grade two when I graduated from grade eight in that one room school, Evalina still in the same desk, still the same size, with her face like a rubber doll and her hair ever wispy and white like an old woman’s.
We are grade 2’s and 3’s at S.S.11 Public School and we are the closing act of the annual Christmas concert held in the basement of the United Church (established 1873) and this is the culmination of our weeks of preparation. It starts on the Friday afternoon after Hallowe’en when we begin the walk to the church, a stone’s throw away from the school and a blessed relief from the dreaded reading to an older student, possibly a boy, maybe dour Jacob Liemann, the oral math genius, reading that marked long afternoons.
The concert is of course more ambitious than the presentation of my junior classmates. The serious Irene Black who is not allowed to play baseball for fear of injuring her fingers plays a classical piano piece. Three Grade 8 girls sing their song with harmony, the one prepared for the Rotary Music Festival. Shirley Gough plays her accordion. Two of the big boys give a comic recitation. As we prepared, there was an unstated message from our formidable teacher that somehow our work here will be evaluated, hence no writing of our short recitation on the back of our cardboard letters. I am in awe of the bigger kids, those who have a role in the two marquee presentations of the evening- Dickens’ A Christmas Carol and the always required retelling of the Christmas story. I am unaware that our twenty minute version of the Dickens’ classic is greatly abridged but am impressed because I have a part in the play. I am one of the Cratchit children though admittedly I have no real lines. Instead, as we play on the floor, we have been instructed by Mrs. McKenzie to say “rhubarb” over and over again which will make it seem as if we are having conversations. We have learned that this is what professional actors do in crowd scenes so feel disproportionately important. But my real awe is reserved for the grade eight boy who plays Scrooge who has many lines and never stumbles.
The retelling of the Christmas story is required every year and never varies much. The central figures, Mary, Joseph, and the Christ child doll take centre stage. Mary has nothing to say but has mastered her look of wide-eyed adoration as she leans over the manger and beholds the Christ doll. I am dimly aware that the girl chosen to be Mary is the prettiest of the senior girls, a slim girl with long wavy blonde hair and no trace of pubescent imperfection in her creamy skin. She seems as serene and elevated as a fairy tale princess awaiting a troop of suitors. Joseph is the dark haired captain of his bantam hockey team and already marked as cool. The angels come and go, the shepherds guard their stuffed toy sheep, the Wise Men trek across the stage to deliver their three gifts and few words to the holy couple, and circling this tableau, the massed choir of the rest of the school sing carols artfully chosen by Mrs. McKenzie to link the story together. There is huge applause at the end of the presentation.
I look out from my place at the side of the stage near the front where the smaller students sit to sing. I can see my mother and my father. They are sitting in a row with Evalina’s parents and grandparents, the only people in that row. My father is right next to the grandfather, the scary Mr. McVicar with the sunken face and the jaw that looks all eaten away. “Cancer,” my mother has said and it is rude to stare at him. Evalina’s parents are there, her mother looking almost as old as my grandmother, her father looking as if he has just come in from the barn, still wearing a denim smock coat. I have asked my mother why they look so different from everyone else. “They are poor,” my mother said, “but Evalina has such a pretty name.” My mother is most impressed with names and has saddled me with a name I greatly dislike at this time. I am Briony and I will not hear that name given to any other girl until I am an adult of some years.
The basement is overflowing. Every pupil’s parents and many grandparents are there along with younger siblings. There may be over one hundred people. So many that some are standing at the back. These are mainly youths as old as seventeen or eighteen, all young men, all tall and gangly, looking uncomfortable in starched shirts and dress jackets, hair freshly combed and brylcreamed, young men who have just finished the evening’s milking. They are both awkward and intimidating standing there, sometimes laughing together for a moment between acts of the concert. They are intimidating but not so much as they will be in a few years when I am on the cusp of being a teenager and am a large girl in a pink taffeta dress, tragically the same dress as a grade eight girl who has recently lost many pounds of weight from a magic pill her doctor gave her, and we must make our exit from the stage, down the aisle, and past that clutch of perennially looming youths.
But this night is one of great happiness. I have remembered my words. I have been a Cratchit child. Santa has come at the end of the program. And I do know already that he is just pretend, that the thin man with the skimpy beard is Mr. Hipley the Sunday school teacher and that the present he handed to me is the scarf I saw my mother accidentally leave in a bag on the table. I do not yet know how much I will later think about my mother and my father sitting with Evalina’s parents nor how the mysteries of early memory shape us and visit us especially at Christmas.
Oh No!!! Time is fling… No sooner have the summer chairs been stored and the leaves cleared but the forecast of snow is announced on the weather channel. Thoughts of winterizing my wardrobe by keeping mittens and boots handy at my door has yet to sink in. Already junk mail from retailers is bombarding my postal box with Christmas imagery advertising “Black Friday Gift Specials”. Anxiety explodes in my heart, realizing that December is racing toward me and the much-heralded season of Christmas is creeping upon me once more. With little time remaining, I need to accept that the season “to deck the house with balls of holly” and launch preparations for making friends and family “merry” is about to arrive.
The thought of being forced to assume the responsibility for spreading joy, producing sweets treats for family and friends who happen by, fills me with panic. Chilly, shortened, darkened days of November have paralyzed me at the thought of having to make “merry”. Without intending, I hear myself muttering “bah humbug” aloud! After self-diagnosis, it seems holiday preparations might improve my attitude, encourage my optimism and eliminate the emotional impact of the shorter, darker days of November.
Decorating and planning promises to be uplifting in spite of the fact that it seems as if all the Christmas decorations recently made their way back into storage. Facing this task, the most pressing question is exactly when is the appropriate time to begin displaying Christmas? Many obsessed with exterior decoration claim it is before the cold weather arrives threatening to freeze the exposed fingers working to install outside decorations. Families with small children might be pressured to believe the day after Halloween is a perfect time. Like myself, many may be motivated simply by the short, darker, days of late November. The reality is it is time to begin decorating and it is time to begin make some lists and check them twice.
Once the traumatic realization passes and acceptance sinks in the decorating process begins. Small steps are good. Replacing the nonseasonal décor with winter pieces like holly that can be accessorized later with shiny, festive balls. A trip to the nursery for a live wreath maybe a potted arrangement and of course a poinsettia help to ease one into the spirit of the season. With the tree in place, lights, color and glitz enhance the spirit of the season. Finally, the hallway and other living spaces come alive with lights and colorful ornamentations to greet family and friends who stop by. With each step my spirits are buoyed inspiring hope that the celebration will enable me to share the joy with others.
In hindsight, it is interesting to consider how wise it was that Christmas was dropped into the late autumn calendar. In reality, the upcoming celebration lifts the spirits of humans of all ages during the shortest, darkest days of the year. My spirits are lifted but not without being aware of some persistent, nagging questions…when should decorations come down and what should come down first? Secondly, how soon will the horticulturists be ready to assist me in planning shrubbery for my spring garden? And so, it seems…the calendar continually nags and drives us forward whether we like it or not.
When it comes to Christmas for most people the main symbol of Christmas is a decorated tree – I reflect on that symbol and other Christmas events when the Christmas celebration is “relocated”.
Carlux. One of the most memorable was a return trip to France to our friends living in the Dordogne, in a small village, Carlux, in a property called Le Fournil.
We arrived before Christmas. It was 1999 and the millennial was on the horizon.
We purchased two little trees at the market and decorated them with red balls and Santa hats. Since it was also the millennium a lovely stuffed bear was acquired with a celebratory banner. Our little trees got planted in the garden above the Le Fournil – they are now 8 feet tall!
Millenours 2000 (my white bear) has gone a little yellow – I have gone a lot grey!
Tanzania – our Christmas tree was an artistic creation of pastel branches on sheets of paper – my mother was an artist and evergreens were not one of the native plants.
Indonesia – no Christmas tree but a special invite to a wedding (Christmas wasn’t part of the culture). The guests were seated facing the bride and groom and a meal was served to all. Unfortunately, the green beans were actually outrageously hot peppers. Tears streamed down my face while I tried not to interrupt the ceremony.
Palm Springs, the Ingleside Inn. We were without our son at Christmas so we took a trip to fill the holiday. Christmas decoration here consisted of a nude sculpture in the garden that had been graced with a Santa hat. Mini trees, decorated, about 8” high, were in every room. Echoing the near forgotten era of the piano lounge there was a pianist (Canadian co-incidentally) tickling the ivories on a grand piano, the food was excellent, classic tableside favourites, as was the wine – a Duckhorn Merlot.
Home and Christmas Tree Evolving – Aurora – London. The Christmas tree became “artificial” since our son was allergic to pine. It was graced with decorations that we had acquired from almost every place we visited. Nothing stylish about our tree but lots of memories. It has not been unboxed and “dressed” in five years. Just seems like a lot of effort when there is no one to share it with. Although, a visit including the grandkid is planned just after Christmas so I may have to take a deep breath and decorate.
As our focal point of Christmas, the tree has been displaced, replaced by a piano recital mid-December (since 2011) and a writing group lunch. COVID was hard on both off these get togethers. No piano recital 2020, one in 2021 and nothing since. This year is particularly hard because the MC of the recital, our piano coach, is still recovering from a serious motorcycle accident. The adult student participants have lost touch with each other and, to some extent, lost focus on the performance objectives. The writing group lunch lost a year to the pandemic and suffered the loss of two of the original group, Alison and Rian. They are missed.
Santa Claus The fantasy of Santa Claus permeates Christmas. Of course, gifts under the tree are a big part of Santa’s role. In Goose Bay, at 6 years old, I guess I was a believer. CBC tracked Santa’s route from the North Pole. Gifts from Santa materialized from the basement (we never questioned why but now know my father made cradles and brought dolls home from a trip – no Santa involved). The requisite photo of our grandson in Santa’s lap was taken when he was a toddler. None since and no gifts from Santa under his tree.
Fascinating was discovering the grave of the real Santa – St. Nicholas. We visited that grave in Antalya, Turkey. The stories of this saint’s life and good deeds seem so far removed from our bearded, classically attired in red and white, jolly old man with his reindeer and his elves.
A lingering sludge drips down a cement block, resembling the arms of a clock ticking time away, and an old man said to me,
Won’t see another one.
And the gray of the eve was mirrored in the cell’s perpetual state of gloaming.
Is it worse to be here on the holiday of holidays? One could easily
gather images of flickering fire light reflecting into dark wood floors, or the memory of being lost in the brilliance of the season armed with jeweled prizes that bob and weave their magic to bring back the light.
Watching the mansion burn under the glow of a sinister chandelier. I would sip sherry in an alabaster robe. And when I hadn’t been the spark of ignition, could I know the cause? Or is it always me? Did I leave the iron on? I am here now; I belong in this prison of my own creation.
Slumped on the bench, the old man sighs and looks at me with eyes that have been bleached by sorrow or time, now almost void of colour—once china blue, I imagine them to once be.
It wasn’t to be this way, he said.
I slip down beside him, taking in the aroma of death and whiskey.
Yes. I take his withered hand, cold and bony. It was to be—told more for my value than his. Amore fate, the gypsy intellect profoundly states.
He shows me a mouth devoid of teeth, and from somewhere afar; perhaps the precinct, perhaps from the depth of our empty hearts, the Viennese waltz begins to play.
Do you hear it? He seems to search for its source, but as though to conjure a monkey wrench to conduct the score, so painfully beautiful, I rise. And the wrench’s oddly distributed weight moves through thin air. Music reaches us from nowhere and everywhere, I sway in animation, my imaginary wrench capturing the light, the sound, Christmas as it is.
The old man sinks into his reflections of what was and what could have been, transported to the cold of Russia and the romance of Anna. I could have skated far beyond. I could have skated away.
Where is your love? He slurs the biting question that pierces my heart.
I promised that Broadway was waiting for her, I reply sadly, letting the monkey wrench fall from the melody.
And suddenly, gilded in gold waistcoats that glimmer with sparsely placed beads, we face each other, and the cell is a grand parlour, and the music our warmth. The sodium lights become candles and we see our reflections in regretful choices; crime and punishment. Cement becomes artistry and our visions are pure. We share this time hoisted onto the pedestal of Christmas miracles that holds court for those like us, in the good of misfortune, in the heart of the unloved.
There is more, he whispers, there is more.
No, this is it. This is the glory. To understand that it is what it will be. We are not made of this earth.
And he leans his head back and the stain on the cement block that is the ticking of time speaks the truth. And the cold cell turns to hallowed ground, a place of reverence. He closes his eyes, one time more, as the bells ring out for Christmas day, and the boys of the NYPD choir are singing Galway Bay, and the meaning of Christmas in this moment is more than it ever could be, with its sadness and poignant beauty.
I wait, pressing my forehead to the cold bars, before I alert anyone, watching red and green Christmas lights flash in dull succession across the dirty linoleum floor, emanating from the small tree positioned at the front desk that taunted me on my incarceration. I am fascinated at their muted depth; an attempt at something, anything but the grit of this place. And when I know for sure that his spirit has moved through the cement blocks, into the damp New York night, and beyond his world of suffering, I shake the bars, and face the direction where the lady of liberty stands, and in the peel of Christmas bells, I sense his grandeur, seeing a better time, when all his dreams come true.
When those blue snowflakes start fallin’, Ivan runs up and down the street trying to collect them, but they melt in his hands. He was amazed to see this strange thing happening.
“Marge, come outside quick. It’s magical and somewhat disturbing at the same time.”
Marge opened the front door and saw her crazy husband trying to catch blue things falling from the sky. As she glanced further closer to the stoop, Marge realized what was falling were blue snowflakes. She didn’t get it. Shouldn’t they be white?
“Ivan, what is going on,” Marge called out to him as she put on her coat and went outside.
“I have no idea but isn’t it sad that the snow is blue. I wonder why this is happening. Why is Mother Nature so sad that her tears are coming down blue?”
Marge put her hand out and let some of the blue snowflakes gather on it. They weren’t the same as white flakes since they disappeared as soon as they landed. She tried to push some together on the grass, but the same thing happened. No snowball-making ability was available.
“Ivan, I think we need to send Mother Nature a letter telling her we’re here to help in any way we can to stop her from being so blue.”
“Where would we send it? We don’t know her address.”
Marge thought about that for a minute. “We can send it to Santa and ask him to get it to her. I’m sure he knows where she is since he knows where everyone is located.”
Ivan and Marge sat down and wrote a short letter to Mother Nature asking why she was so blue that her tears were coming down as blue snowflakes. They left all their information so she could respond with how they could help. They addressed the second envelope to Santa with a short note inside asking him to get their letter to Mother Nature as soon as possible.
The blue snowflakes continued coming down off and on over the next two weeks. On Christmas Eve, Santa left an envelope on their mantle for them to find the next morning. When Marge got up, she looked outside and saw it was snowing, but the flakes were white again.
“Ivan, go look out the window quickly. The snow has changed back.”
Ivan sleepily wandered into the living room and looked out the front door window. He pulled open the door to check it out, picking up some of the flakes.
“They are white again. I wonder what made Mother Nature happy again.”
Marge then noticed the envelope on the fireplace mantle with their names in the middle of it. Curious, she picked it up and slipped open the flap. Taking out a piece of paper, she read:
Dear Ivan and Marge,
I received your lovely letter asking what was wrong. I was sad because I wasn’t going to be able to bring joy to all the beautiful children all over the world. There is so much sadness everywhere, and it makes me sad.
I’m sorry my tears turned blue and frightened you. Everything has been taken care of for me to share my time with all the children of the world even though some of them have gone to another place from their homes.
I will try harder to not let my moods influence the proper way that nature happens. Thanks for caring so much and offering to help. Just getting your letter was a big help.
Sincerely,
Mother Nature
Ivan looked over, and Marge had tears running down her face. She convinced him they were tears of joy, not sadness, and handed him the letter from Mother Nature. Kindness is always rewarded from places you would never suspect, so be kind to others.
It came upon a midnight clear when the majesty of the heavens made me feel so small yet immense at the same time. To know I was part of this vast creation, one average person in a population of eight-point-one-billion people. A person of value. An individual with talents.
The stillness of the night a lesson for my soul. Be quiet and breathe in. Let the peace quiet my anxieties instead of listening to the fuss of the holidays and letting it stoke my worries. Perfect place settings, hospital corners on beds, dust-free surfaces do not matter in the grand scheme of things. My days on this earth will be too limited by comparison, I shouldn’t waste a single one.
Away from city lights, in Ontario’s pristine north the sky opens. Thousands of stars, each a mere pinpoint of light laid out in constellations, and beyond them clusters of white, pink and blue. Each star a tiny sun. Each a reminder of that great star two thousand years ago, the Star of the East. The star that led three wisemen from the east to worship a two-year-old boy. The future prince of peace.
Recently the Star of the East was thought to be an alignment of Saturn, Jupiter and the moon, which only adds to the grandeur. The night sky is amazing. Sailors sail by it, lost folks use it to get their bearings, and it’s said stars guide birds on their migrations.
The mysterious heavens are the next frontier. Space exploration and settlement a dream of many scientists and adventures. We’ve already polluted our earth and the skies above; do we need to fill the heavens with our earthly junk too? Let us leave the precious metals on our precious moon. A network of internet satellites nothing more than earthly vanity. Communication needs to be savoured, not circulated at lightening speed. We managed simply fine up until now. It worries me to think what will happen when those satellites become obsolete. I doubt they will be brought back to earth and recycled. Recently, astronomers have complained that these manmade objects are already interfering with our view of the night sky, blocking the light of stars. They have dimmed something so regal.
Let me breathe in the night air. Let the sparkling heavens still me. The plane quietly blinking across the horizon is a travel wish. The peace of flying through the night a sigh. The early morning sun a glow on the eastern horizon and the same sun a smudge on the western horizon. Our little blue planet a speck in the universe.
Clear midnight skies are full of promise while a cloudy, misty night dampens the spirits. The soul cannot soar. It searches for the warmth of a woodstove and artificial light for guidance. Cocooning in the shelter of manmade walls.
Every evening, I part the blinds and look for stars. My telescope set to capture comets. As I snuggle under blankets, it comforting to have the stars above winking at me.
Sources for story ideas can be found everywhere. As a way to jumpstart our group’s creativity, I thought ‘filling out’ the stories behind obituaries might be a good place to begin. Some were local people, but most were found online. I Googled a few key words like military, immigrant, beloved, humour, and found ten beautiful people who had excelled at life. From there I erased all names, funeral homes and hospitals, leaving blank spaces to fill in with our made-up names.
I encouraged the group to do a bit of research into the history of what was left in our outlines. A woman who fled Eastern Europe, a mother growing up in the south, a Winnipeg orphan and so on. Life was to be added back into our obituary outline.
The results speak for themselves. A journalist meeting a famous Canadian on a kibbutz, a doctor who dedicated his life to restoring sight around the world, a train aficionado ruled by his tomato harvest, a young ambulance driver who met the love of her life in a time of war, and a young woman rescuing her boyfriend from his mother’s claws.
Obituary Stories
Obituary Memory (Madeleine Horton)
Sand was whipping around the bus as Randy Kerr prepared to board. She reminded herself through the stark light that fitfully shone through the sand, that she had wanted an adventure. Her plan, if she had a plan, seemed more and more absurd.
She could see through the shadowy windows the outline of many figures. The bus was nearly full. A couple of soldiers, clearly late comers, stepped back to allow her to board. She stood at the front, quickly glancing at the passengers and the two empty seats at the front. No one would think it strange if she moved to the back and sat in one of the two seats with a single passenger.
She had been here in Israel before. Twelve years ago when she was still an idealistic younger journalist. She had scored a much desired assignment to write a long article on kibbutz life. It had probably been the piece that really ignited her career and set off the stream of prestigious awards that followed. She was here now for a different reason. She had felt for some time that she was coasting, taking cosy domestic assignments, being paid to stay in posh hotels and given unquestioned expense accounts. After all, she was Miranda ‘Randy’ Kerr.
This would change everything. A war had started. The Yom Kippur War they were calling it and she had a scoop. Leonard Cohen was here secretly to entertain troops. That was the payoff from keeping in touch for all these years. A tip from a friend in a kibbutz, a call to the commander the friend knew and here she was boarding a troop bus to the camp Cohen was going to.
Her plan, if she had a plan, was to wander around the camp. If questioned she would show her press credentials and use the chutzpah she hoped she still possessed. She stood at the front of the bus. She was the only woman. No one stared up at her. With her loose beige shirt and baggy cargo pants and long hair tucked under a floppy sun hat, she drew no approving glances. And the dozen more years on her face, middle-aged, she reflected. She knew at once where she would sit. She couldn’t believe her luck.
“I had forgotten the sandstorms. Maybe because I was at a kibbutz, indoors a lot.” She sat down. “Will the sand affect your guitar playing?” she said with no introduction and the presumption she knew who he was.
She had already heard he had called a soldier his brother, cementing his ties to the tribe. It was all they talked about at the kibbutz.
“I called a man my brother,” he said, as if he were reading her thoughts. “He wept and grasped my hands. ‘You, you understand us’ he said. I told him we are all brothers, I have many brothers, across many borders. His hand went limp and fell from mine. I’m not sure why I am here. Forge a bond with those like me….” He looked at her, “May you find what you seek.”
Randy sat in the silence for a long time. This alone could make a sensational piece. More came as she free floated from topic to topic without the questioning she’d heard he abhorred. Later she watched him sing surrounded by men, no stage, no barriers. Such good details for a story.
He was not on the bus she took back. In her room, she jotted quick notes for her story. “I am here and not here.” She thought of his crushed identity, never really to have a tribe, a people. The true artist, always the outsider. And herself, an undercover scavenger gnawing on his torment. She grasped her notes and tore them up.
Obituary Project (Cathy Sartor)
October 22, 1921 – October 7, 2023 – Doctor John Alexander Campbell
A routine “turn around the sun” ended abruptly after 102 rotations which was a goal achieved by “Doc. J” as he loved to be called. He would be especially pleased to know that his passing coincided with the Canadian Thanksgiving weekend of October 7, 2023. John’s mother was a Canadian at birth and she launched the family tradition of celebrating both Canadian and American Thanksgivings which John celebrated throughout his life.
Enjoying life to the fullest and in the face of challenge was a preference John embraced wholeheartedly. His partner in life for seventy-four years was his awesome wife Matty who supported him during his academic years while qulifiying to practice optometry. John and Matty met when they were high school students in Hudson, New York.
John was the devoted father and father-in-law of Neil and Shirley Smith, Robert and Mary Brown, Douglas and Margaret Matthews and Ronald. Adored grandfather of Jacob, Cameron, and Lara. Dear brother of Michael and the late Mary Jones, and brother- in-law of the late Ronald and the late Elizabeth Hewitt, brother of the late James and Johanna Caughlin. Cherished uncle of Peter, Susan, Camilla, the late Judith, and the late Teresa.
In recent years, his love of jazz sustained him while in palliative care. Born in 1921, Jazz was ingrained in his upbringing and throughout his young adult years. Performers like Count Basie, Duke Ellington and Louis Armstrong influenced his love of jazz from a very early age. He and Matty enjoyed years of wintering in Palm Springs where he riffed and jammed with many jazz performers that he met during his extensive travels. During his winters in Palm Springs with Matty at his side, Dr. John continued to enjoy and fine tune his jazz repertoire. Sadly, Matty predeceased John. Following her passing and in his remaining years he was able to maintain his well-being and enthusiasm for life by sharing his love of music with fellow long term care friends.
Jazz was not Dr. J’s only passion. Dr. J’s career passion to provide eye care followed him into retirement. With the conclusion of his practice of Optometry, he volunteered travelling into remote areas of Canada providing support and diagnostic eye care for residents living in remote Canadian locations. He was especially proud of his work with ORBIS. Over the past four decades, ORBIS the Flying Eye Hospital has flown world-class professionalsto provideeye care in over 95 countries and has been a call-to-action for better eye care around the world. Wherever ORBIS lands, specialists raise awareness, create change, and ralley support from local governments, global organizations, and philanthropists in an effort to contribute to the global fight of ending “avoidable blindness” particularly in children. (can.orbis.org) John’s enthusiasm and determination to engage will be missed by all who knew him, those he diagnosed and those who may have benefited from his expertise and connections.
The family wishes to thank his wonderful caregivers, Mary, Matthew, Danielle, James, and William for their years of compassion and loving care. Their dedication touched us profoundly. The family is also very grateful to the Palliative Care Unit at the St. Joseph’s Hospital. Funeral service took place from St Peter’s Basilica on Monday, October 9th 2023 at 2pm.
Obituary Reflection (Catherine Campbell)
Obituary – Henry Nichols – Sept 22, 1946 – Nov 19, 2022
It is with great sadness that we announce the death of Henry Nichols on Nov 19, 2022 after a two year battle with cancer. Henry is survived by his loving wife Thea and his sons Brendan (Leslie), Jeffrey (Rachel), Derek (Laura) and daughter Deirdre (John) as well as his loving grandchildren Francis, Serena, Elsa, Daniel, Stephen, Indra, David and Richard. Henry was predeceased by his parents, Andrew and Emily. He was born and raised in Richmond, attended Vancouver College and graduated from UBC. His love of travel began with a backpacking trip through Europe and the Middle East in 1969. Henry was a great provider for his children and coached many of their sports teams – football, baseball, lacrosse and soccer. He began working in Prince Rupert Pulp Mill’s technical department as well as serving in production, marketing, management in various other BC mills.
After retirement, Henry and Thea pursued a life of travel visiting 138+ countries in all seven continents. Travel also comprised of train trips in South Africa, Zimbabwe, Egypt, Morocco, Peru, Europe, India, China and Mongolia. His passion was collecting model trains especially those made for the Canadian market culminating in a published book. He also loved to work in his vegetable garden each year providing great crops for the family. We would never leave on vacation until the tomatoes were harvested!
A Mass of Christian Burial will be held at St. Mark’s. Rest in peace, Henry.
Reflection on a life
Rest in peace, Henry.
Rest would certainly seem to be needed. Filling a couple of paragraphs with a lifetime of activity. Can’t help but look at the selfless presentation and question how it was possible.
I had known Henry in his younger years – ironically he got involved in smuggling. Perhaps that unmentioned past is reflective of his fondness for travel.
Although I hadn’t spent a lot of time with him over recent years I remember his joie de vivre with fondness. Then he packed up and headed out west.
So I headed to googling several of the details in his obituary. Only Henry’s name shows up (not his wife or family) – reflects the uniqueness of his life’s passions.
Henry and Thea certainly didn’t have reservations about a big family and that aspect of the obituary suggests a real family-based life. Let me work it out – Henry’s travel started in 1969. A typical backpacking post university jaunt – 23 years old. Then back to British Columbia to marry, work, coach multiple sports. I am going to assume he retired at 65. And I am going to assume that his children were born in the 1970’s, grew up, went to university, married and produced grandchildren in short order. During this period Henry seems to have taken up gardening (and provided generously) and developed a passion for model trains. He had the time to write a book. I have a friend who is infected with that train passion. It is an intensely time-consuming activity. Without writing a book.
Given his focus was Canadian trains it is surprising all the travel references are elsewhere. Train trips were still a focus. Planning and organizing a series of tours through Zimbabwe and South Africa to see the falls and safaris is time consuming not to mention the actual trips.
All the other locations mentioned for the travel are stand alone. Exotic. Add them up though and the total is a long way from 138 countries on seven continents. Maybe cruising – no suggestion he and Thea chose that mode of travel.
It doesn’t feel credible.
Impose the growing season of tomatoes, the social and sports activities of children and grand-children Henry and Thea must have spent zero time at home during some key events in the years.
Who was this obituary written for or by? No intimate anecdotes about activities with his family, friends, workmates. No memories of coaching the sports teams – winners or losers. Was it written by a grandchild impressed by ticking off the numbers and not missing a relationship with his/her grandfather.
Perhaps the absence of reflections on a deceased’s personality, uniqueness, is common in obituaries. It is uncomfortable to dwell on the loss. But it reads like a Wikipedia post. Cold. Unreflective. No recognition of the deceased’s personal essence.
I don’t care about 138 countries and harvesting tomatoes. I remember the young, vibrant Henry. Laughing over a glass of wine. Talking about the backpacking adventures. Making his friends feel special.
That Henry – rest in peace.
Obituary (Diane Chartrand)
NAMES FOR OBIT 8 WRITING
OBIT PERSON-
Amelia Brook Kirk
HUSBAND-
Noah Kirk
CHILDREN-
Sadie (Daughter) and Christoper (Son)
GRANDMOTHER OF-
Tilly, Pearson, Arthur, Petunia, and Elroy
PREDECEASED BY-
Husband: Noah -Sister: Mazzie – Brothers: Max, Donald, Stuart, Allen, David, Nathan, and Michael
OBIT SCENE FOR AMELIA
A year before her passing, Amelia contacted her remaining family members and asked them to come to the house for a special dinner. She wanted to show them a secret she had been keeping. Amelia just got several copies of the memoir she recently published. She wanted to read portions of it to them.
Amelia selected specific sections and marked each one with a sticky note. Her children Sadie and Christoper knew some of how she had met their father, but Amelia and Noah never talked about their lives in England before and during the war.
In the memoir, Amelia revealed her entire life, starting with growing up in England with her older sister Mazzie and her seven brothers Max, Donald, Stuart, Allen David, and Nathan, who always were her protectors since she was the baby of the family.
There are sections telling about the painful times during the war and her work as an ambulance driver while serving in the Women’s Auxiliary Force of the RAF. Her job was how she met the wonderful man she married in 1946.
Amelia wanted them to each have a copy and read about her life, but she needed to tell them about a special time for her that created the family they have become. It was time her children and grandchildren knew how she had met Noah that terrible day.
After everyone had taken their assigned place at the nursing home dining room table, Amelia brought in a box and set it in the middle of the table, taking her book off the top and sitting down.
“I’ve summoned you all here for a surprise. In my hand is a copy of my memoir that I published. Before giving you each a copy, I need to read a section to all of you.”
“Mom,” said Sadie. “You wrote a book? How did you hide this from us?”
“I had a lot of help from the staff who typed it up for me and helped to get it up to the publishing site.”
Amelia opened the book to the page she had marked. “For years, a story was told about how I met my beloved husband Noah, the father to Sadie and Christoper and grandfather to the rest of you. That tale wasn’t completely true.”
“What are you saying, Mom,” said Christoper.
“Your father and I didn’t want to revisit that terrible time during the war, but now, since I’ve put it in the book for the world to know, I thought it was only fair that you hear it first from me.”
The room was so quiet you could hear the rain hitting the two windows next to the table. Amelia looked around the room and began to read.
As the sound of guns and explosions could be heard, I drove my ambulance to a location given to me. I found a young man lying on the ground with a lot of blood flowing from his chest area. My assistant and I did what we could to stop the bleeding. We loaded the young man into the back of the vehicle and drove at high speed to the field hospital a few miles away. For some reason, I couldn’t leave this patient and waited to see if he’d make it or not…..
Obituary – Lila and the Ladder (Marian Bron)
Process: I first googled Ooltewah, Tennessee to find out its history and if anything, interesting had happened that would affect my character’s life. It was a Union stronghold during the civil war which I found interesting since it was in the traditional south. Her parents are mentioned but not her late husband’s, only a sister-in-law. That gave me a reason for her elopement in October of 1960. I made her the descendant of a rebel, something her mother-in-law could hold against her family. From there I had fun.
The twelve-foot wooden ladder I had lugged from my parent’s house thudded against the second-story windowsill of a white clapboard house two streets over, making more noise than wanted. Wesley Freichuk had always been a sound sleeper, his mother not so much. My luck she would find me standing beneath her pride-and-joy’s bedroom window in the middle of the night and spoil my plans. Squatting next to the leafless lilac bushes beneath the kitchen window, I waited until I was sure she hadn’t heard me.
Wesley’s very manhood needed saving. If Mrs. Freichuk had her way, those apron strings of hers would never be cut. Especially for the likes of me, the great-great-granddaughter of a rebel. But I loved Wesley, and he loved me, so there was no way ancient hostilities were going to ruin my happiness. His sister Melinda liked to joke that those strings were tied tight around her brother’s neck. He couldn’t breathe without his mother’s say so. Mrs. Freichuk was a force to be reckoned with, and I was up to the task.
The Freichuk house was locked tighter than Fort Knox. There were no spare keys hidden under flowerpots, especially since flowers were sentimental wastes of money according to Mrs. Freichuk, and no windows cracked open to catch the mountain breeze. Since no lights came on, I started my climb up my father’s rickety ladder, avoiding the rotten third rung. The seventh rung was also a bit punky. I stood on the tenth and tapped on Wesley’s window.
He slept on.
I tapped a bit louder.
Still, he slept on.
The window wouldn’t budge. Knowing, Mrs. Freichuk she had nailed her son’s window shut to preserve his chastity. No gold-digging princesses were going to get at her boy and ruin his virtue.
I tapped louder yet.
The window one room over flew open. I pressed myself against the wall.
“Lila?” Melinda whispered. “What the blazes are you doing?”
“Shh!” I whispered, finger to my lips, almost losing my balance. “Your mother will hear you.”
She shook her head and shut her window. Moments later, Wesley’s window opened.
“The dope’s still asleep.” She tip-toed to his bed and plugged his nose.
His eyes whipped open in a panic. He looked from his sister to me at the window. Melinda put a finger to her lips. He nodded in understanding.
“You are crazy,” was all he said as he started to dress. He filled a paper sack with clean underwear and socks. The family’s only suitcase was in Mrs. Freichuk’s bedroom closet.
Before her brother could climb out the window, Melinda said, “Wait.” She slid from the room and came back moment’s later with the keys to her brand-new Chevy Bel Air. “Don’t scratch it and don’t eat in it.”
“Thanks Sis,” Wesley said as he pocketed the keys and kissed her cheek.
The seventh rung snapped under his weight, and he crashed through six and five on his way down to four.
“Shh!” Melinda and I hissed in unison.
He rolled his eyes and reached for the third rung with his foot. He crashed to the ground, taking two lilac branches with him.
He dusted himself off. “Who knew eloping with you would be so dangerous? I take it that is the reason for all this subterfuge?”
