Robert and Pearl and me

ROBERT AND PEARL, DUCHESS ALBERTA, 1946

The war is over! The soldiers who are fortunate enough to be returning home have arrived and settled in, recognizable but changed, eyes haunted by visions they struggle to forget.

A few men are back from working for 50 cents a day at Seebe forestry camp. They are conscientious objectors, and Robert is one of them. And Robert is in love.

The engagement picture shows two awkward, very serious young adults, dressed in modified Mennonite clothing—she with long hair pulled back in braids around her head, covered with a net ‘covering’, loose blouse, skirt just below the knee, arms crossed tensely in front of her, smiling slightly. He is wearing a suit and vest, with no tie, and dark, short hair, slicked back.

Robert was born in a farmhouse near Tofield, Alberta, Canada, 40 miles east of the provincial capital, Edmonton, in February 1924. He was his parents’ second child, but their first child, a girl, died in infancy. Robert grew up with a distant, intelligent father, and as he told me a few months before his death at 73, a mother who regularly beat him with willow branches, or any stick she laid her hands on.

Robert was a physical presence in an intellectual environment. He reached his full height of 6 feet at 12. His younger sister and brother were brilliant students, and artists. A sister, Virginia was born last, and was loved and treasured by all. She also succumbed to a communicable childhood disease before the age of 3.

Robert loved playing ball, hunting gophers, and working with his hands. He started smoking at 9—another revelation in the last year of his life, although there certainly were clues throughout my childhood. Robert’s maternal uncles had a reputation in the Mennonite community of being wild, and were known to be athletic. All died in their 40s of heart ailments. Robert’s mother, Irene, also died at 45 of a heart attack.

Pearl was the 7^th of 8 children, born in Medicine Hat in 1924 and raised in Richmound Saskatchewan. A snapshot showing an overhead view of Richmound in the ‘Dirty Thirties’ shows a flat huddle of worn-looking shops and houses, fading off to the horizon with no trees in sight.

Pictures of Mom in her childhood reveal a sensitive, unsmiling, attractive broad-faced child with wavy hair and big blue eyes. The exceptions to the stern expression occurred when she had a baby or small animal in her arms. Pearl’s sister Shirley was a year older, and was considered the family beauty. Pearl dressed fashionably and was somewhat proud of her tiny waist and long, wavy hair, but was aware of her ‘also ran’ status in terms of looks. She focused on piano lessons. She played piano for the numerous family singing parties, as well as for dances and weddings. She worked hard in high school as she planned to become a nurse, possibly in India, where she had dreams of becoming a missionary.  Major events in her early life were her illness in mid-childhood, which she believed was polio, and dust storms that filled the air and sifted in through cracks in walls, filled bowls, and left drifts on floors.

Raising 8 children in a small Saskatchewan town in the 30’s required some imagination and a lot of hard work on the part of Pearl’s parents, Sally and John. Pearl’s father was a jovial man with a barrel chest, a reputation for strength, and a loud voice, who did not seem to pass on much of his extraversion to his offspring. He sold Fuller Brush products, sharpened knives and scissors for the neighborhood and beyond, and sold fertilizer to the surrounding famers. The family raised a few cows and the younger children delivered milk to the neighbors for a few cents a week.

Sally was known for her gentleness and her smile, and for keeping her hands busy sewing, cooking, or cleaning. She loved literature and music, and would sing songs and read nursery rhymes to small children until her voice cracked.

Robert and Pearl met in a Mennonite youth group in Duchess. Pearl’s older sister Leila had joined the church, and invited Pearl to attend meetings and social events with her. Both women were attracted to the Gospel message, the conservative way of life and they made strong friendships that lasted for years.

When Pearl accepted Robert’s proposal, he gave her a small cedar chest as a gift, and a watch instead of a ring, as was this group’s custom. He also built a small house in Duchess for them to live in after the wedding on July 14, 1946. Robert was working for a local man as a farm hand. Pearl stopped working as a nurse’s aid in the Brooks Hospital just before the wedding.

Just under a year later, I was born, a month early, but healthy, weighing 6 lb. 3 ounces. Even though prenatal care and delivery came with a price tag in the days before universal medical coverage, Robert and Pearl were optimistic, and life was sweet.

Four months later, Pearl developed pleurisy and her left lung collapsed. She was admitted to the hospital. Her mother, now a widow, travelled from Medicine Hat to look after the baby. Pearl needed surgery, and a long hospital stay, and was facing a long convalescence. By this time, Robert’s father had remarried. Robert asked if he and his family could stay with the new couple until the medical bills were paid, and Pearl regained her strength. They agreed.

IRENE: EARLIEST MEMORIES        :  

Grandpa Ezra and Stella’s house: “The Fisher Place,” Tofield, Alberta. Age 2 1/2.

It’s warm out even though it’s almost bedtime, and the air smells like yarrow, clover and cows. The cows are bawling to be milked, and Grandpa puts on his striped overalls, picks up a couple of pails from the shed on the side of the house, and heads out to the barn. I skip along beside him.

“Are you going to milk Bessie?”

 “Definitely.”

 “Are you going to give the cats some milk to drink?”

 “Possibly.”

 “Can we go see the baby horse?”…Silence. That’s the signal to stop bothering Grandpa and go find Daddy. He’s working on the railing beside the barn, and when I reach him he smiles, finishes pounding in the last two nails, drops the hammer into his pocket, picks me up and tosses me in the air. I squeal appreciatively. He carries me to the house on his shoulders.

Although the details of living at my grandfather’s house are fuzzy to me now, since we moved there when I was 8 months old and left when I was 3, I have lasting impressions of Queenie, the collie, and my step-grandmother, Stella. Stella was probably in her late thirties when she married my grandfather, and was a hard-working, pleasant woman and an excellent cook. Her husband was well respected in the Mennonite community, but he was nearly 20 years older, and his heart was failing. I was usually welcomed when I visited their part of the house, but there were times when Grandpa was in severe pain, and I had to leave.

Grandpa’s house had a parlor, with a lovely polished wood bookcase full of books. There was no running water, but there was a windmill on the property with a pump whose handle would lift little children up into the air. Water for the household came from the pump on the kitchen counter.

The farm was operational, but it didn’t make much money. Grandpa was, of course, more focused on books, preaching, teaching and touring than on making a living. One year, a huge storm took the roof right off the tall red barn. Almost overnight, the men of the Mennonite community replaced it. They arrived in pickup trucks, with tools and lumber. They sang and joked with one another as they busily pulled boards off the blown-away roof and set to work replacing the ones that were not broken.

The large country kitchen was buzzing with preparations of food for them all: roast beef, pickles, preserves, mounds of mashed potatoes, corn and peas from jars in the pantry, big, white loaves of bread, and apple pies.

We stayed in Tofield for much longer than any married couple would be comfortable with. It was probably a blessing that Mom had another medical condition that prevented her from further pregnancies at that time.

Eventually, when I was 3 1/2, in 1949, we moved to Culp, Alberta, in the north eastern part of the province, where my parents, partially supported by the Mennonite Church conference, would introduce the locals to our take on Christianity. Dad worked as a carpenter on various bridges, beginning with the one across the Smoky River at Watino.

Happy Monday

Nordic track + Rachelle van Zanten + Robbie Robertson + Kashtin = good times!

Puzzled by RCMP report in local paper

So...I'm pretty puzzled by the RCMP reports I've been reading in the last year or so. They're completely reassuring at first, as various drivers are described doing dumb and illegal things, and being apprehended by our hard working, vigilant officers. I really do appreciate them. They do one of the most difficult jobs I can imagine--putting their lives on the line and attending fatal and horrific accidents, for example.

But after reading about several drivers (gender-neutral, no racism or ageism there), I found two entries referring to the crimes of FEMALE drivers. What the heck? Are we to assume that it is so typical for people who run afoul of the law to be male that it doesn't require a mention? Or was it impossible to identify the genders of all the other drivers?

I just wonder, what would be the reaction of our community if the report had only identified people by race?
Let's see...5 "drivers" were stopped due to various offenses including suspected drunk driving, or transporting large quantities of marijuana, and 2 Black drivers, or Latino drivers--fill in the race of your choice--were stopped for suspected drunk driving or some other offence.

Think about it.

EARLY PERCEPTIONS OF GOD AND RELIGION

I'm writing my memoirs. It feels quite narcissistic, except for the fact that I believe there are things in my past that my siblings missed out on, that they probably would benefit from knowing, and being 65 and aware of my mortality in new ways every month or so, I am anxious to pass on my memories to my descendants. 

 ***

Being ‘different’ in a society where sameness is emphasized so strongly had its drawbacks. We, as a group of semi-conservative Mennonites were different from the general population—incredibly so to my immature way of thinking—and I couldn’t understand why my mother, who had been raised with such freedom in terms of appearance, entertainment, and general lifestyle, converted into a group where even trimming a woman’s hair was seen as wrong, and the standard patterns for clothing, shared by Amish and Hutterites, with slight variations, included a net ‘covering’ and a heavy black ‘bonnet’ to cover uncut hair, which was pulled off the face and pinned up. Women were not to wear makeup or jewelry—not even a wedding ring—but were given watches in place of engagement rings, by their fiancés.

We were taught Bible stories from an early age. Some of them were exciting and very worthwhile in terms of examples of faith and character. Joseph and Daniel were two of my favorites, and I wondered why I had to be a girl, when it seemed evident that not only Mennonites, but God Himself, preferred males. I reacted to this perception of unfairness by deciding that there really was no difference…my thoughts and opinions were as valid as any boy’s. This led to some physical altercations. When I was about 4, I attempted to beat the truth into a Bluesky boy’s head when he insisted that hands were not called hands, but ‘patties.’ I also had a strong difference of opinion with a boy in Watino who stated that it was more important to be a Christian than a Mennonite. My mother told me I had punched him on stage during some performance, but that memory is lost to me!

Our beliefs were based on a strict literal interpretation of the Bible, mainly focused on the New Testament epistles, and the words of Jesus. One preacher friend we visited often confused me somewhat. He was a powerful speaker, who knew the Bible well, but at home he indulged in a lot of silly talk, and ignored his wife’s struggles to force some cooperation in chores and responsibilities out of their young teen son. The preacher delighted in teasing children. One of his main routines involved a threat that he would put tape on my brother’s chin to prevent him from drooling when he ate. This preacher figured prominently in a nightmare I had. In the dream, I had died, and went up a rough ladder to heaven, which looked a lot like a hayloft in a barn. This preacher was there, roaring and teasing as usual, and angels came by like birds, pecking at me. The latter undoubtedly arose from my misunderstanding of song lyrics, ‘The angels beckon me’ sounded like ‘The angels pecking me’ to my 3 year old ears.

At any rate, my impression of God and religion was that He was watching me with a stern expression on his face, and keeping track of all the things I did that were wrong. And there were many…sexual exploration with a neighbor boy in a tent being the most guilt producing, but also dreams that my second brother had been having a bath in a sink, and went down the drain. Somehow I believed it was my fault. I used to consider my likely punishment before acting, sometimes. (This is probably more common than I realized at the time). I would take a small box of matches into the ice house, where large blocks of ice were stored in sawdust, having been cut out of the river the previous winter.

I’d light a match to watch the flame, and inevitably burn my thumb. One of my parents would notice the blister, and a spanking would ensue. I also felt guilty about my inner rebellion toward rules and punishments that made no sense to me, and about losing toys, being mean to my brothers, and procrastinating when a parent told me to do something, instead of obeying instantly. I somehow had the idea that if I died without having confessed one of my many sins, I would not go to heaven. The alternative was too horrible to contemplate, but impossible to forget.

This guilt has been a lifelong companion, and probably also arises from being raised by parents who believed strongly in correction and punishment, but that complimenting children was likely to make them conceited and unteachable. Even when helping to sort through my parents’ belongings after their deaths, I found essays they had written on this topic. I noticed, however, that they enjoyed compliments themselves, and were hurt or stung when others’ efforts were valued more than their own.

I hasten to add that both my parents made efforts to establish closeness, acknowledged the contributions that their children had made, were proud of us all for one reason or another, and were also products of their imperfect environments.

Mastercard Update

So...we broke up, my M/C provider and I...quite some time ago. But undaunted, they kept sending me 'bills' telling me when to make my payment. The problem was, in terms of logic, that they owed ME. I let this go on for a few months, then I wrote to them again. This time I mentioned that it might be worth their while to pay me what they owed and stop sending 'bills,' as it was costing them money to continue the madness.
Today I got my cheque in the mail for $27.78. No comment, no thanks. Ah well, c'est la vie.
I think I'll splurge and take us out for a latte! lol

So...Christmas again. I remember what it was like when I was a child. Every year, or most years, anyway, Mom would tell us not to count on any presents because we were really broke. But we always got something. The year I turned 10, I had discovered ice skating on a frozen pond at the back of our property, and even though I only had my Dad's beat up Size 12 hockey skates, the toes stuffed with paper, it was fun, gliding, turning, trying to whirl...
I let my brothers have turns, and they were naturals, even though they must have been 5 and 3 at the time.
I SO wanted skates of my own for Christmas, but it was one of those lean years. Christmas Eve arrived, with something special for 'supper'...maybe pancakes, or raisin toast, and hot chocolate, and there was a package for me! I pulled out a pair of white skates! How wonderful! They had a price tag on a piece of masking tape--$2.00, and a few scuff marks. Obviously, they were used, but I didn't care. That was probably the most memorable Christmas present I ever had.
We didn't have a tree, because that was a considered a pagan custom, and anyway, who could afford ornaments? But what we did have was a secure family,  and  traditions, like reading the Christmas story from Luke 2. I quite often was the reader, and I loved the feeling of the Old English King James version on my tongue, and its sound in my ears.
We always had a Christmas concert at school, and I pretty well always had a major part, because I was  good at memorizing, and there would be another concert at church, with lots of carols, which I loved.

Fast forward to the present. The advertising and hype begins before December. Apparently, people are buying each other huge TV sets and diamonds, electronics like smart phones and game systems. 

People are fighting over whether we can use the words "Merry Christmas" or "Christmas tree" or not, and it seems a little ironic that the angels said something about peace on earth.
I miss the way it was. Not the poverty, of course, which has  continued and is probably more common than it was then...but I miss the simplicity, and the focus on the origins of the celebration.
I rebel in little ways: I rarely spend more than $40 on anyone. Cards go in the mail just before the date on which they're pretty well guaranteed to be delivered before the 25th, and I don't decorate until the weekend before. This year, most people are getting homemade gifts from me. I'd rather be thought cheap than end up in debt.
Season's greetings! Happy Hanukkah! Merry Christmas! Joyeux Noel!

Breaking Up with MasterCard

My address

November 14, 2012

Dear MasterCard of BMO

I am deeply disappointed in the one-sided relationship we seem to have developed. When I first received my M/C about 15 years ago, the rate was about 6%. I have faithfully used my card and paid more than the minimum payment all this time, and AS THE INTEREST RATES DECREASE EVERYWHERE ELSE, yours have gotten higher and higher. I refused your expensive upgrades, so you now charged me a $45 INTEREST FEE??? WTH

Please cancel my card immediately.

I am no longer interested in participating in greed and money-grubbing tactics.

Also, your Air Miles site is useless.

I’m not only angry, I’m kind of sad, as it HAD been a mutually beneficial arrangement at one time,

Yours truly,

Irene Crick, or as you prefer to think of me

Account number **** **** **** 3939

Leaves

Becoming a Senior

Thoughts on Becoming a Senior

A senior…I was still working in trauma counseling, mind fully occupied with administrative matters and others’ pain, thinking about what to do for lunch, when to have my hair done, keeping files in order, how my relationship was doing, when it appeared: A brown envelope containing the following message:”You qualify for Old Age Pension, beginning the month after your 65 birthday, on September 7, 2012.”

Hey. That’s means me! Wait a minute, there must be some mistake. I’m not one of THEM! Stereotypes flash into my mind:

Gray haired, slow moving, with dulled senses, decrepit, pill taking

Invisible, traffic slowing, bent over a walker,

Frugal, disapproving, fussy

Sweet old ladies; “She’s a dear.” “What an old bat!” “He’s so whiny…he’s like an old woman.”

We elderly are the cause of news hysteria:

Baby boomers are a strain on the pension and medical systems! Half will have Alzheimers in the next 25 years! There will be no resources left for those who are still in the work force when they are ready to retire!

Jokes abound. Baby boomers refuse to age gracefully. Keith Richards keeps on rocking like some animated zombie. Cher is no longer able to changer her expression, due to repeated plastic surgery. Betty White’s amazing! She’s in her 80s, but convinces young people of her coolness in a sitcom that appears to be strong on innuendo and devoid of meaningful content. Those are their choices. Good for them, if it brings them joy, and inner peace.

Fear strikes, and renders me sleepless. I wonder, who will I be if I’m not a counselor?

I resort to self-deprecation to prepare myself, and others for my dotage: “I bought some gingko for my memory, but I can’t remember to take it!” Drum roll. “I knew I was slowing down when I realized I didn’t need to add ‘1000’ to each number when counting seconds. One…two…three…where was I?”

I make sure my professional membership and insurance are up to date, so I can segue into private practice.

I don’t want to become demanding, ridiculous, needy. I imagine my children saying

“What will we do with Mom? She’s definitely losing it”; “You take her, you have an in-law suite!” Never mind that I’ve been ‘losing it’ for their entire lives, being a right brain person who notices atmosphere, beauty, colours, moods, but can’t keep track of keys.

Some of the clerks at the grocery store shout at me when I hesitate for a moment, “Do you want a BAG? The chip goes in the BOTTOM.” Hey, I know, I’m getting there. And by the way, Sweetie, gray hair doesn’t make you deaf!

But...does any of this really matter? Not really, as long as that pension keeps on coming. And even if it stops—those of us of a certain age have practical skills, and a work ethic passed on by parents who grew up during the Great Depression. They survived, and we will too!

There’s time to write and learn and enjoy the great pleasures of ‘puttering’…doing things that used to be hated chores, and taking time to do them properly and creatively. And as for beauty…it is subjective. I’m learning to appreciate the attractiveness of laugh lines, and a genuine smile.

Frankly, I am amazed how good it is to be a senior. I am so blessed to be relatively healthy and fit—tricky back aside. I don’t WANT to do therapy any more. I know who I am. It’s time for reflection, appreciation, and focusing on non-client relationships. There are some very good, younger people waiting to show what they can do. They are full of enthusiasm and dedication, and energy! They have families to support and student loans to pay off.

Speaking of blessings, I married the love of my life at 64. Marriage at this stage is not like marrying at 21. This time, we didn’t get married to complete ourselves, or in the foolish hope that we would make each other happy, meet each others’ every need, or be there—present—all the time. Heaven forbid! We know how to be comfortable in solitude and are willing to grant each other the favor of space as needed. We are able to let go of minor hurts, overlook quirks, and practice courtesy. 

I get to paint every day if I want to! Again, not with the goal of selling paintings or to gain others’ approval, but for the sensual enjoyment of spreading paint on canvas, and watching the beginnings of a style emerge—my own visual language.  Companionship is sweet; family is all the more precious because of the infrequency of our visits.

With age, often, comes an attitude shift toward gratitude. It’s not important how the rest of the world assesses me; I am responsible to my faith and my own principles.

May all the days that still are left to me

Be spent in love and creativity.

Cautiously Entering the Writers' World

Almost 3 weeks of retirement, and mannn, I feel like I could do this forever! It's a little scary not having any other income but pensions for a couple of months, but the amount is actually decent, combining both our cheques!
I've just come back from my second Writers' Circle meeting. It's been very motivating in terms of getting my pen moving...making stabs at poetry, descriptions, stream of consciousness and assignments from "Writing the Sacred," a book I bought at a Journalling workshop a couple of years ago.
We're having some of our work 'published,' i.e. photocopied and bound, and presented to the public. I really hope the title doesn't immediately alert prospective viewers that we're a very amateur group. There is some talent in the room...
Tonight I'm defrosting pizza for dinner. It's really great to be in lazy mode...or should I say 'living creatively!'
Some hard physical work would be good though, one of these days.
Yawn,
:-)

I am doing my best to avoid getting swept up in the political arguments, demonizings, dogmatizing and other craziness preceding the American election. No doubt this is part of a learning, refining process.
The far left seems to be focused on the illegal (I imagine) assassination of a man who was tried and found guilty by the press and popular opinion. The far right is focused on the business acumen of a man who evidently (who knows, really???) is a tax dodger and a man who outsources employment to sweat shops in China and India, and hides millions in Europe.
All this is to be expected, and part of the political process. What really bothers me the most is the alliance of right wing fundamentalist 'Christianity' with the republicans. The VP hopeful is an admitted fan of Ayn Rand, well known for her recommendations of selfishness, independence, and total disregard  for the well-being of others, especially the weak and the poor. How does this bear ANY resemblance to the teachings of Christ? So many of the 'christian' Americans i meet online seem to believe in the American constitution as much as, or more than the Sermon on the Mount.
Ahh, I feel better. Blogs are so good for ranting.

So here we are, and another year has slipped away. Retirement is really close now--12 more actual days, 8 more work days! I am about 85% excited, looking forward to a new phase, with its accompanying adventures, and 15% apprehensive. There will be less money coming in, but I have a lovely partner who helps with Everything, including keeping heat costs down by providing and burning wood, and keeps repair costs down by doing most of it himself.
We'll have to stop going out to eat so often. I've been squirreling away money, canned goods and other staples for those lean months: October and November, before my first GIC matures.
How will the days look?
Well...on weekends I tend to catch up on cleaning and laundry, do a little baking, and then happily putter and read. I guess I'll be doing more of the same, as well as making more of an effort in relationships, and maybe take a course or two at the local Resource Center.
Of course there's painting, and other creative endeavours. It would be good to find a market for some of it, so we can free up some space, and buy more art supplies. Our dream is to have a studio and gallery/shop. One day!!
And there's the Kindle! Thanks Janna :-) I just downloaded Ken Follet's second in the Pillars of the Earth series. I found I missed the people I encountered in the first book, and the second was available on Kindle, so now I have it! I love the immediate gratification of acquiring books this way.

A year later...things change!

So...here it is, a year later, and I decided on the main direction of my retirement!
I got married :-) The old 'roommate' showed up again and proposed, and I accepted.
So my house is now our house, and we are planning to stay here as long as we can manage the expenses and the work.
Life just turns out beautifully sometimes.

Counting down

I just got back from a visit with my banker. When it comes to finances, and projections for the future, reality bites!

I've been talking about all the thoughts I've had about what I want to do when i retire, but now it's getting to be time to get serious and have a hard, cold look at them.

It would be really nice to just stay where I am and putter in the yard--take the occasional trip to see family, and travel to some exotic destination once a year.

The nice lady at the bank seemed to think that was possible, altho I could tell she was shocked that I won't be getting any retirement benefits from my workplace. So...how could it happen??
A lonnng amortization period, with a small mortgage payment. Sounds good, but stuff happens. I could have a septic system failure (thousands!)...a tree could fall on my house, or another bug could kill several of the remaining trees the pine beetle didn't get, and I'd be paying a logger to cut them down.

Another option is selling my house and buying a mini Wini...fun, adventure! Minimal expense. Sounds great, but it could be lonely. Maybe I could sell my house and rent an apartment, or buy a cheap 4-plex or duplex. A trailer? Hmmm....i'd be just as happy with the mini Wini, i think.

Or...I could renovate my basement, make it into a suite and rent it out. Ms.Banker was really keen on this option. It would mean borrowing some money, after all! Or, I could find the perfect roommate who likes to garden, pays all his/her bills on time, and doesn't leave a mess in the living room. Does such a person exist? Yeah, but that one didn't work out.

I guess marriage is a possibility, altho at my age it seems extremely unlikely, unless as some witty widow in this little town suggested, I find an elderly gentleman who's in need of 'a nurse or a purse.'

Last but most likely, I could continue working. That's a bundle of options to contemplate too. I could try private practice out of my home, or maybe renting an office space a couple of nights a week at YCS, or somewhere else. Really, the more ideas I come up with the more decisions there are to make! I could work as a desk clerk or a grocery clerk, or maybe a library assistant for part of the year, assuming anyone was looking for employees anywhere! Or...who knows what the future holds? My mind is boggled...to be continued.