My Grandma

One of the things I miss most about my Grandma - who would have been 85 on July 26th - is her coffee.  I am not much of a coffee drinker but hers was yummy, especially with (gasp) Coffee Mate in it.  Yummy yummy.  I used to sit at her table with her when I was a young adult drinking coffee, sharing my "tailor made" (Gasp) cigarettes and listening to her stories late into the night.  I loved it.

I miss a lot of things about her.  She was a pretty interesting lady. She lived a lot in her youth - the day she died I found out that at one point she ran off with the circus.  I cannot even imagine that, I was wild when I was young so I can imagine me doing it but I cannot imagine my Grandma doing it! She is my Grandma!

It's a bummer she is gone because she would have gotten a kick out of my lovey short people.  She claimed to hate hugs - be we all knew it wasn't true. She just felt the need, for some reason I will never understand, to act tough.

Hey Grandma - I heard how you talked to Auntie Terry's dog. I saw how much you cared and pretended not too when I brought those stray kittens home. You are not a tough guy at all. You never fooled anyone who loved you.

Miss you lady.  xxoo T.

Saturday Stories #5

If you are reading this and you know me personally, please know that it is not my intention to hurt, harm, or disrespect anyone.  These are events the way that I remember them, the way I lived them, how I felt about them. This is only about me.  Nobody else. This is my story.

I think I can.  I know I can.  I will.

So the other day the Little Man and I are driving somewhere talking about what is different from when I was in school to now and I mentioned that we had a smoking area.  It seems weird to me now and it certainly seemed weird to him - it is a totally foreign concept to him that there would be an area designated for smoking ON school property.  I love that.

The smoking area was always the part of the school where the bad asses hung out.  The guys with the long hair and the jean jackets or mack jackets (we call them Salmo dinner jackets around these parts).  My husband!  In grade eight my locker was in the last little stretch of hallway before the smoking area door and I can remember him sauntering out there with his hat barely on his head, kind of floating.  He was in grade 10 and did not even know I existed.

Source: wisconsinhistory.org via Laura on Pinterest

Salmo Dinner Jacket

My cousin Debbie and I went to the same high school in grade eight.  We did NOT get along.  The basis of our not getting along that year was a guy.  He liked me, she liked him.  I did not particularly care for either of them - it was pretty stupid.  So after a lot of bickering and dirty looks in the hallway, she calls me out to the smoking area for a fight! I was not planning to attend.  First of all, if you know me as I am now I am sure you cannot imagine me fighting, and honestly not that much has changed.  I was terrified!  Not only of fighting her but also of my Dad's reaction - she is his sister's daughter after all.  So my plan was to avoid, avoid, avoid (again, if you know me now this is not going to be a surprise to you).

And then came Scary Kerry.  She was in grade nine. She was old, bigger, and most definitely scarier than me. She found me and told me that I would be dealing with her or Debbie.  I was terrified.  For real.  I see her walking down the street now - 24 years later - and I still think (and sometimes say) there is Scary Kerry.  It occurs to me now that I don't know why she wanted us to fight so badly that she was willing to fight me (or beat me up) to get me to fight.  Anyway, I made the only choice I felt I could and out to the smoking area I went.  Tail between my legs, hoping for the best expecting the absolute worst.  I do not remember much about the fight - I am sure it was ridiculous.

Of course like all school yard fights it was broken up and we were haled into the office.  We got detention - I think we had to wash desk or some such thing.  My Dad?  He said she had it coming.

Saturday Stories #4

If you are reading this and you know me personally, please know that it is not my intention to hurt, harm, or disrespect anyone.  These are events the way that I remember them, the way I lived them, how I felt about them. This is only about me.  Nobody else. This is my story.

I think I can.  I know I can.  I will.

Read Part 1 here.

She’s a Little Runaway Part 2

That night was the beginning. The beginning of hell for my poor parents and a different life for me.  Am I sorry?  No.  I am sorry that I hurt my parents.  I am sorry that my actions following that night caused my parents relationships to change - with my Aunt, my Grandma, with me and my brother; with each other.  Am I sorry for how things turned out for me?  No.  Even though it got so hard I thought I just wanted to run farther and faster.  I would not be me if where not for all of that past and despite my glaring flaws, I like me.

So that night, I slept at my Grandma's.  I do not remember much about the next day other than it was emotional.  My parents were beside themselves and I just wanted to go do what I wanted to do.  I left again in shorts and t-shirt with no shoes, hitching a ride into town and to a party. I came home from the party with Debbie and stayed with her at my Aunt's for the next week or so

I spent the rest of the summer I running away.

When we got back to Trail my Mum was not letting me out of her sight.  I had other ideas and took myself to the arcade across town.  Sitting there feeling sorry for myself, thinking that I would never see the Pebble Tosser (we will call him PT for short)  and suddenly out of the blue, in walks his brother.  I was more than a little excited.  I ran up to him and and gave him the biggest hug I could muster.  They were never far apart - after hugging Tim I ran outside to look for PT.  He was there.  In his big black menacing looking car. (Aside: I have to tell you that now, as the mother of a daughter, I would be terrified of this guy.  Long hair, heavy metal t shirt, big black car (with a big back seat!), looking older than his 17 years...)

We made plans for them to pick me up about a block from my parents'.  I waited until everyone was settled down for the night, locked my bedroom door and went out my window.  That night was crazy.  We started the night at friends where PT pressured me into having sex with him, we got evicted from there and spent the rest of the night sleeping in a culvert under the highway near an old run down cemetery.  Cold, scary, and and maybe a little bit thrilling (again I SO DO NOT WANT my daughter doing anything even close to this). In the morning we made our way to PT's house and he the took me to my Aunt's.  I stay there for a few days and then my Uncle brought me home.

When I arrived there, I think my Dad was at work because my Mum was alone, very emotional, and left to deal with me.  I walked in the door with my half a dozen duffle bags containing my clothes and other precious items, and she said "If you are going to go, just go now."  I took her seriously and walked out the door. Perhaps not my greatest moment. I was left to trudge through the neighborhood loaded down with too many bags in the heat of August.  About half way through the neighborhood, I spotted the police - my instinct was that they were looking for me.  I dumped all of my stuff in a friend's yard and tried to look casual.  It did not work.  They picked me up and took me to the station.  I am not sure what happened after that other than from my perspective which was that the cop was a total jerk and the bed in the jail cell they put me in was really uncomfortable.

In the wee hours of the morning I was brought to a foster home.  In hind sight, I think the decision was made that night but they wanted me to sweat it out a little.  The foster home was interesting, a story for another day.

Saturday Stories #3

If you are reading this and you know me personally, please know that it is not my intention to hurt, harm, or disrespect anyone.  These are events the way that I remember them, the way I lived them, how I felt about them. This is only about me.  Nobody else. This is my story.

I think I can.  I know I can.  I will.

She’s a Little Runaway Part 1

Oye I really do not even know when to start with this part of my story.  I guess at the beginning.

My cousin Debbie – the only female first cousin I have on my Dad’s side – is the same age as me.  She was a handful and I was the good girl. That summer evened us out a little.

Before I go any further I need to refer you back to the first Saturday Story about my Grandma’s place at The Lake.  My parents, as well as my Dad’s brother and sister, all had their own homes on my Grandma’s property.  My Auntie Denise, Uncle Don and my cousins Debbie and Calvin lived in their spot all year round from about the time I was about 13.  Debbie and I never got along very well.  We played together because we were put together but she lied and cheated and stole and was selfish and bossy.  Even as a small child she was not very nice and we did not see eye to eye most of the time. The summer of 1988 was the only time in my life when I ever felt any sort of commradery with her.

One summer my Grandma (God rest her messy soul) made a deal with us to clean her house for a flat of strawberries each.  While cleaning, Debbie decided to help herself to some of my cousin Paul's money.  She blamed me.  It was a disaster - typical of our relationship.  Needless to say, goodbye strawberries.  Honestly she was horrible.  She still is.  And I am not a person who says this about most people.  I would rather believe that people are good and that if they are acting horribly there is a reason.  In this case, I think the reason is way to deep set into her and she is just horrible, plain and simple. Anyway,

Debbie was a party girl.  My Aunt and Uncle were at work and she was smoking and drinking with her friends on their patio every night of the week.  The first few days I was out there asking them to please not swear and lecturing them on the evils of smoking (oh yeah, I was a 15 year old goody-two-shoes).  By the second week of this I was making plans to sneak out with them.  One of them in particular.

Honestly, I do not even know how it happened. It was one of those things where after the dust has settled you are standing there going - what the heck was that??? It was a long time ago, perhaps I too many of the details are foggy not for me to remember everything.  I do remember being excited - in a freaked out brave sort of way.

So, lets see what I can remember.  Debbie and I planning our way out my bedroom window, or wherever I was sleeping, for several nights in a row....  The night I got caught, what do I remember?  My parents suggesting I sleep in the tent.  Keeping my clothes on under my pajamas.  Putting my alarm clock under my pillow just in case I fell asleep before I got the signal.  Telling my Mum I loved her.  Hearing the pebbles hit the tent.  Taking off the pajamas and shutting off the alarm and sneaking out of the tent and around the corner with my shoes and jacket in my hands and coming face to face with my Mum.  Turning around and seeing my Dad.  Running in the only other direction I could run in.  My Dad chasing me - and catching me.  My Mum interrogating me while my Dad searched the neighborhood for the peddle tosser...

Until next week ~

:o) Tina

Saturday Stories #2

If you are reading this and you know me personally, please know that it is not my intention to hurt, harm, or disrespect anyone.  These are events the way that I remember them, the way I lived them, how I felt about them. This is only about me.  Nobody else. This is my story.

I think I can.  I know I can.  I will.


Spring Fling

Okay, so let’s skip ahead through the trips to Vancouver to visit my maternal grandparents, the camping and water slides and sightseeing and endless days in our boat out on the lake and all of our other fun summer activities to the rest of the year.  Still – idealic.  I had an easy and enjoyable childhood.  My Dad had a good job, my Mum stayed home and took care of us.  We had everything we needed, almost everything we wanted, and always felt unconditionally loved.  Like I said, I cannot remember anything that wasn’t great.  Every day I hope my kids will be able to say the same thing.

I think things started to change when I was in grade eight. Unlucky 13. Once the hormones were unleashed and my parents were faced with my desire to be independent.  To make my own decisions.  My Mum has a tendency to want to control a situation (I inherited this trait!) and as I have now learned through my own experience that does not work well with hormonal teenagers (more on this later). I remember a lot of fights that got really ugly that were really only just a battle of wills. Making my lunch before I did something I wanted to do, borrowing my friend`s clothes knowing that was a no no in our house… those kinds of things.

In the spring of 1988 my life began to change.  When I look back on the differences between childhood and teenager-hood 1988 is when a lot of the big things really seemed to have happened, after that it was growing – growing up and growing into the changes that I had haphazardly inflicted upon myself.  It was the year of rebellion - sex, drinking, smoking pot… running away.

In the spring I seemed to be a bit of a magnet for boys – and I loved it.  There were a few calling my house all the time and I was crazy about a few others.  One of them being a member of the cross country running team named Tom Sendit. He was horrible to me which of course kept me coming back for more.  I went to dance with my friends and was making out with him in his best friend Ben’s truck and when he wanted to kick it up a notch I said “No.  We are not even going out.” – his response was “We are now.”  Classy and memorable.  He spent the early part of the spring I was in grade nine trying to convince me to have sex with him (which I didn’t) and getting me to do his English homework (which I did).  There was no official end to that relationship , he just stopped taking my calls and using me to do his homework.  I remember being disappointed and a little embarrassed but more because of the defeat than the loss – I was so indestructible back then.

Later on that spring, my friends and I got some beer to get drunk for another dance.  We each guzzled our six pack and went into the dance totally plastered.  I cannot believe I drank that much – one beer and I am tipsy now and I am twice the weight I was then!  Anyway, my memories of that night are vague.  I had a friend named Mark who was dancing with Ben’s sister and I approached him for… help, maybe just because he was a familiar face… and Ben’s sister suggested I go ask him to help me.  I do not remember much more about the dance (other than the throwing up).  Ben walked me home, making sure I got home safely, and then before leaving, he told me that he loved me.  He told me that if I remember him telling me that the next morning I should come to Gyro Park to watch him run.  I did and so I did.

(Aside:  My parents were away and the neighbours were keeping an eye on us.  The pot smoking, Nazereth listening, Steve King reading neighbour. I was not worried about going home.)

Wouldn’t it be a nice story if I could say “and we got married and had children and to this day I love him more and more with each passing moment” and blah blah blah – readers, that is not the case. There is so much more to tell. I lived hard and had more fun than one person should be allowed to have for the next 15 years.  I assembled stories and learned lessons.  I created a past for myself that I hope my children will not be able to claim for themselves.  I did stupid reckless things and put my life in danger.  I drank too much and did too many drugs.  So many things, that I do not want my kids to be a part of.  My poor parents.

Ironically, I have come full circle as Ben possessed, at 17, many of the qualities that I love about CH.  He was responsible, dependable, very nice and very easy – easy to understand, easy to please, easy to get along with.  There was never a hidden agenda. He did what he could for me and tried to do more.  He taught me how to drive and how I liked to be kissed. I, on the other hand stomped all over his poor heart.  He is married to a friend of mine now, they have two kids, two dogs, a nice house and seem to have a nice life – not too damaged by me!

In June, as we always did when school got out, we headed out to the lake.  I do not remember being too worried about seeing Ben.  I may have been, but it is not something that has stuck with me.  Funny how life works, isn’t it?  I was not attached to him then but I am attached to the memories I have of him now – he was there for the last of my innocence.  He held my hand during the last months of my childhood, helping me up the steps to the next stage of my life. 

As the summer progressed, Ben rode his bike out the Lake to see me.  (About 50 minutes in the car – he was on the track team and in great shape but I do not know how long that would have taken.  Too long.  TWO very steep passes.)  The second time he came out was a disaster. I had met someone else.  Someone not as nice.  Someone who would dramatically change my life.

Saturday Stories #1

If you are reading this and you know me personally, please know that it is not my intention to hurt, harm, or disrespect anyone.  These are events the way that I remember them, the way I lived them, how I felt about them. This is only about me.  Nobody else. This is my story.

I think I can.  I know I can.  I will.

As Far Back as I Can Remember

My first memories are of simple things.  The first day of kindergarten when everyone cried but me.  Trips to my Grandma's house in all kinds of weather and how good it felt to be there.  Chasing my cousin Michael's friends around the walnut tree, trying to catch them to kiss them.  Playing baseball with all the boys in the yard of the empy house across the street.  The hot summer, eating cereal out of plastic cups and dirty carrots and yummy green beans out of my Grandma's garden; having a drink from the hose to avoid going in for fear of not getting back out into the sunshine or the setting sun.  Playing kick the can on summer nights and hiding under the back deck with my cousin Michael, listening to the crickets chirp their summer song.  The cats in "the back bush" who would come out once in a while looking mangy to see if anything and been left for them by my gentle, yet tough Grandma.

My Grandma, my paternal grandmother, played a large part in my childhood.  She lived 45 minutes away from us in a small town centered around a warm, clear lake.  She had been born there, both of her parents were Italian immigrants and she was the third from youngest of eight children.  The house she lived in was the house my Dad was born in, the house my great-grandfather (my Nono) built for himself and my Nona to live in.  This all sounds very country, and maybe it was in 1948 when my Dad was born, but it is now a hot spot for summer tourism.  Makes me feel kind of sick and desperate to be there now - even just driving through - for so so many reason.

When I was a kid, my Grandma had a garden that took up most of her yard.  I did not know it then, but she did not have much of an income and so she was very industrious about how to feed our family.  My three cousins (Wayne, Paul, and Micheal) lived with her and we (my parents, my brother, and I) spent almost all of my Dad's days off there.  It was such a nice feeling of family and togetherness. There was always someone to play with - even if I was the only girl - and always something delicious for dinner and a warm bed to crawl into at the end of the day.

My cousins' mom died of what they think was an anyerism in June 1970 when Micheal was about six months old.  Paul 2. Wayne 5.  They went to spend the summer with my Grandma and stayed forever.  I am glad, for me, that they did.  I cannot imagine my childhood without them in it.  My Uncle Ted (my Dad's brother, their Dad), lived in Vancouver and came to the Lake almost as much as we did - weather permitting.  We all had our own "home" on my Grandma's property.  Honestly, it was magic.

Summer was nice and winter just as much so.  My Grandma made the worst mashed potatoes (dry and crumbly beacuse she did not like milk and used butter sparingly) but the best Christmas baking ever.  I miss her.  A lot. When I close my eyes and try to remember other things to write about her and her home, I can't remember things so much as smells.  The lilac bush between her house and our cabin, the wood fire she used to heat her place in the winter, the bread she was almost always baking, cigarette smoke from her funny little cigarettes rolled with rolling papers.  Or I hear sounds, the sounds of the grown ups laughing at the adult table over Christmas dinner, the hens clucking in the chicken coop as they work to lay the eggs we are going to snatch out from under them for our breakfast, the big trucks going down the nearby highway at night, or my favorite Grandma sounds - her plastic bottomed slippers shuffling on the floor and the sound of her whistling between her teeth.

My Dad said to me once that memory is like a muscle.  The more you use it, the stronger it gets.  I try to remember often.  For me it is something like watch a TV show in my imagination.  I like to look back on the past - not to relive it, or feel sad about its passing but to keep it alive.  I have lived so much in my 38 years, and I am just now slowing down and thinking - whoa.  Am I half way there?

I am 38.  Seriously?  I have a hard time believing it.  That is old enough to be a grown up but somehow I do not feel like one - not even on a good day.  I was born in March 1973.  My little brother arrived in January 1975. We lived in a little house on the hillside, not far from where I live now, and then moved to a more prestigious neighborhood, to slightly bigger house, when I was three.  My parents still live there.

To be continued...