Goodbyes.

As many of you know, two years ago my paternal grandmother suffered a massive stroke, which left her weakened, unable to care for herself, but thankfully able to speak, move on her own (a bit), and she was still Grandma. Last Wednesday, she suffered a second stroke, and this time the muscles of her neck and throat were paralyzed, leaving her unable to eat or drink. The doctors informed us that regardless of what measures we took, her life would not extend beyond a few days. She hung on for nearly a week- thanks to the excellent care of the staff at her nursing home, and I think the love of her family. She died in the early hours of Tuesday, September 23, 2008.

Her death was inevitable, and not unexpected, and while I am relieved that her suffering is at an end, it does not change the fact that my grandma is gone. I fly to Ontario tomorrow to be with my family as we say goodbye to our matriarch. It will be a tough weekend, but a good one too: the stories are sure to flow, and we will all have the opportunity to reconnect with one another. While we are working our way through through our grief, I thought I would re-post my words from two years ago. If you haven't already heard, please let me tell you about the remarkable woman that my grandma was:

Born on December 28th, 1919 (for those of you that know me, that means that I was my Grandma's 60th Birthday present), Beulah Marguerite Carkner (nee Lawrence) is the oldest of thirteen kids, (8 of whom are still living). Beulah grew up on a farm near Hartland, New Brunswick, in the heart of the potato, and bible belt. She helped to raise her younger siblings through the Depression, babysat the future magnates of the potato world, Wallace and Harrison McCain, and as a young woman, moved to Saint John to work as a nurse. At one point, her youngest brother, then just a baby, was very sick. In a last ditch effort to save him, my great grandmother, Mildred Lawrence, brought him to Saint John, where my grandmother was able to save his life by giving him the simplest gift of all: a transfusion of her blood.

I should note that although she left the Hartland area over sixty years ago, my grandmother had the uncanny ability to recall near complete narratives of the area and its people. Once, on a drive through her old 'neighbourhood', she charmed us all with the family histories of each house that we passed (including one hilarious story about the McCain boys). Her stories have brought my distant family home to me, and to the rest of her children, grandchildren, nieces, and nephews, helping us all to understand where we've come from. And when she got together with her brothers and sisters, watch out! 'Cause the family narratives flowed like a river. There's nothing that is more of a comfort to me than listening to the tales of my family. But I digress.

When World War II began, Grandma left New Brunswick to work as a nurse on the base at Summerside, Prince Edward Island. It was here that she met my grandfather, Wallace (Wally) Carkner. They were married on December 30th, 1943, shortly before he was shipped overseas. My Grandmother would go on to give birth to six babies in the next thirteen years, the third of whom would become my father.

Now, my grandmother was a strong-willed, intelligent woman, and always had been. She was hardly the ideal of the 'obedient' wife of the mid-20th century. In fact, I suspect that Grandma would give many of the young 'liberated' women of today a run for their money when it comes to independence of spirit and speaking her mind. These personality traits did not mesh well with my grandfather's ideal of a wife, and thus, despite their love for one another, the marriage would ultimately dissolve. The final strain was the tragic death of their eldest son, Terry, in a car accident in 1961. He was only 17 years old. I'm not sure that the family has ever fully recovered.

After my uncle's death, my grandparent's marriage quickly went from bad to worse. The separation was not a pleasant one, and when the dust settled, my grandmother was forced to leave Ottawa, to return only a handful of times- for the marriage of my parents in 1976, for the birth of my cousin in 1977, and for my Grandfather's funeral in 1992. She had gained custody of her two youngest children (the older three stayed with Grandpa), and settled in Toronto.

I cannot imagine how devastating it must have been for her
to lose her eldest child, and then effectively lose her family as
well as the life that she had known for over two decades, and be faced with literally starting all over again. But she did it, all the while raising two teenagers by herself. (By all accounts, this latter task was not all sunshine and picnics, but all parties involved have survived the experience, and my grandmother shared an enviable bond with her younger son and daughter).

Here was a woman who had been married for 23 years, and consequently had not worked outside of the home during that time. She needed a career; one that would pay well enough to feed, clothe, and house three people. Her background was in Nursing, but her history of service was not enough to get her a job- she needed certification. So what did my grandmother do? She went back to high school. HIGH SCHOOL, at the age of 47. And obtained her GED. Next, she proceeded to put herself through the Quo Vadis School of Nursing in Toronto. All while working to pay the rent and put food on the table.

Upon receiving her certification, Beulah worked at Toronto General for a year or so, and was then offered a job in the Labour and Delivery Ward of the Sault Ste. Marie General Hospital, where she worked, helping to deliver and care for babies, until her retirement in 1984. I cannot think of a more rewarding way to spend your time. Most people have one or two kids; my grandmother had hundreds, maybe even thousands. I have even met some of the people she helped bring into this world: I went to school with one in England, and I worked with another when I lived in Fredericton. They're not kidding when they say it's a small world.

But growing up, I did not know any of this. My grandmother's demeanor was fairly no-nonsense, and I remember that I used to be intimidated by her for that reason. It was not until my grandfather's funeral that I finally figured out that unemotional on the outside does not necessarily mean unemotional on the inside. In fact, I think I would be hard pressed to find a woman who loves her family more than my grandma loved hers.

When my grandma had her first stroke, she asked for pictures of all of her grandkids (there are nine of us) and great grandkids (of which there are now eight) to be placed in her hospital room. I could just imagine a veritable gallery of memories surrounding her as she snoozed and her children looked anxiously on. Upon hearing of her request, I realized that I might be out of time, and that I had wasted all those stupid years being intimidated by a woman who would have done just about anything for me. I'm just glad I came to my senses before it was too late, and got to visit her once or twice as an adult, to get to know her as she really was. Now I have my images of her through a child's eyes, as well as some memories from an adult's point

of view.

This is the woman who made me my first blanket, an article that hardly left my side for the first seven years of my life, and did not leave my bed until I was thirteen. I still have it. It is disintegrating, so I've preserved it, but it still exists. When the twelve-year-old me couldn't stop crying at my grandfather's funeral, she took me aside and calmed me. She was the only one who could. She is the woman who taught me how to knit, how to ice cookies, and to bake checkerboard cake. She inspired my first foray into quilting (which now resides on my bed, in the place that her blanket used to occupy), and taught me to love gardening and yard saleing. She attended my undergraduate convocation ceremony, and upon its conclusion presented me with a wall-hanging she had quilted for me. I was floored- it was so beautiful- and all I could do was nod when she said she hoped it was ok. Later that summer, when I traveled by bus for three days to visit her and my aunt, I arrived in the Soo wanting nothing more than a shower and a bed. What I got was a cup of coffee, a set of knitting needles, and some wonderful conversation. I am so glad she didn't let me have what I wanted that day: What I got was infinitely better than any nap ever could be. During that same visit, I remember her telling everyone and anyone that would listen about her granddaughter, the university graduate, potentially a future Prime Minister! I was embarrassed and incredibly pleased at the same time.

So here's to you, Grandma Beulah. I love you so much. Boy are we going to miss you.

All that's missing is my hot chocolate.

It has been five loooong years in the making (maybe even longer), but I have finally finished my first quilt! I was inspired to start the project by the amazing artistry of both my Grandmother and my Aunt: They have each made some absolutely remarkable quilts in their time, and I have been fortunate enough to be permitted to help out here and there. I must admit, I was, and still am, in awe of the amount of patience, work, and care that goes into these amazing pieces (You will note that I lack the patience, so mine is not half so intricate as most quilts...).

Those of you who are crafty will know that every once in a while, you get an uncontrollable urge to create something. When I was twenty or so, a number of these urges found me tinkering with sewing geometric patterns. These experiments produced four "blocks", which I had initially intended to turn into cushions; but what did I need with four little (pretty but useless) cushions? Nothing. So finally, (after the blocks sat in my closet for a month or five) I decided that the only way to go would be to make a quilt of my own.

Now, I will warn the purists out there: This quilt was completely fly-by-the -seat-of -thy-pants. No planning. My only vision for it was to incorporate as many different soft textures as I could, so it uses various forms of cotton, flannel, courduroy, terry-cloth, and whatever you call the inside of swearshirt material. Much of the design as it now appears, occurred almost by accident, and was done in fits and starts over an extended period. (In case you're wondering, the original cushion fronts became the corner blocks...) And no, not all of the seams match perfectly (ok, some not even a little bit)... I'm really not that great of a seamstress. But it's all one piece (don't even ask how many new words I learned trying to get it that way), and it's really really warm. And cozy. And warm. And did I mention cozy? 'Cause it is. Maybe if you're reaaaally nice to me, I'll let you try it out sometime!

Meet Dax.

Note- to the best of my knowledge, no squirrels have been injured in their pursuit of pilfered bird seed.

For a little over a year, my father has been waging war on the squirrels that have cunningly found their way into each of the four or five bird feeders that reside in our backyard. It's been quite entertaining to observe the new tactics and fantastic structures that he has employed in an effort to thwart the little critters... it has been even more amusing to watch said critters find their way around each and every one of these measures.

Typically said measures have consisted of hanging the bird feeders by metal twining (to prevent the squirrels from chewing through the cord, felling the seed-filled feeder, and running away with the spoils crammed in their little cheeks); placing a wide, circular object, such as a garbage can lid or a pizza pan, above and below the feeder (to impede the squirrels' ability to access the feeder); or placing the feeder far out on a small branch of a tree so that the branch will not support the weight of the squirrel and will flop it onto the ground. We even put out some seeds in a container at ground level to lure the squirrels away from the feeders and their need for high-flying acrobatics.

None of it works. These are canny critters that we're dealing with here, and they can pretty much find a way around any obstacle. Steel twining? They chewed through it. Garbage can lid/Pizza pan? They would hang by one back paw (how do they do that??) and swing onto the feeder. Thin branch? They would either take flying leaps onto the feeder, or would team up and while one squirrel applied its weight to the branch, dipping it closer to the ground, another would jump from the ground to the feeder.

I used to watch this while playing the theme to Mission Impossible in my head, secretly rooting for the squirrels (sorry, Dad). It was a hilarious scene.

This past Christmas, my Mom thought that she had finally found the coup de grace. A certified squirrel-proof bird feeder. This sucker is designed to be hung from your house, and has a little grate in the front that birds can fit through, but squirrels cannot. Being that our house has vinyl siding on it (not an ideal climbing surface) , it seemed that the squirrels would have a devil of a time even getting to this feeder, much less be able to extract seeds from it.

Could it be? Could the little birdies that reside in our backyard finally get an undisturbed meal??

Maybe not.


I have no idea how it got up there, but isn't it cute?? I think I will name it Dax. Just because.

My sister took this picture and sent it to my Mom and I and then posted it as the desktop on the family computer so that my Dad would see it as soon as he got home. There was a certain amount of resignation in the disgusted look on both Mom and Dad's face. And a certain amount of amusement (I think...).

As for me, I don't think I've laughed that hard in quite some time.

I'm still giggling just thinking about it.

Return of the Native

So this post will not be half so tragic as Hardy's classic, but the title fit, ok? Sheesh.

Anyway, I'm back on the East Coast, where I have been for a few days now, but have been up to my eyeballs in bureacratic red tape and other such wonderful substances, and thus have been unable to communicate with y'all.

Thanks again to everyone that wished me a good journey, and sent their love to Grandma. It was greatly appreciated.

The trip to the Soo was good. In fact, my only regret is that it did not last longer. I feel like I should be there. I want to be there. But, alas, I've taken about as much time from work as I dare in this crazy season. All I can do is hope that I have the opportunity to go back sometime soon (*que pointed look towards the Air Canada offices (somewhere in the ether) and the sending of mental vibes along the line of "seeeeeeeaaaat saaaaale").

At this point, I feel I should note that there are a few bright points to Air Canada- to start, they managed to get my Mom and I on my sister's early flight. Yay! No Montreal for us! On the way there, at least. Oh, and they give you PeakFreans cookies on the plane. Yum!

Upon arrival in the Soo, I was struck (as I always am) by what a sad place it is. Once a booming steel town, it has dwindled over the past twenty years. All I can say to describe it is that it is a sparse place. We arrived at the Rehabilitation Hospital (once the secular hospital- the main hospital used to be run by the Catholic Church), which is located across from an old residential area near downtown. As we crossed the street, I noted the painful irony that there was no crosswalk to aid in the crossing of the four, fast-moving lanes of traffic, forcing visitors (and potential patients) to play a rather scary game of chicken with the on-coming traffic.

But we made it. In one piece. The up we went, dousing our hands in disinfectant and inhaling the astringent aroma of Hospital. Seeing my grandma for the first time since her stroke was both better and worse than I thought it would be. That's all I can think of to describe it. I was shocked by her altered appearance (I'm not sure what I was expecting), but her voice has returned to its normal range, and when we arrived, she was "holding court" (her words) in the hallway with my aunts and her best friend, and munching on a fresh piece of gingerbread. This was encouraging.

We spent the four days of our visit scheduling ourselves around the hospital visiting hours. In the 'tween hours, we'd all apply ourselves to some project or another- knitting, baking bread, reading, pre-cooking dinner for post-evening shift with Grandma, or reliving our family history by looking through Grandma's multitude of photo albums. We spent our time with Grandma taking her for spins around the ward in her fancy chair, giving her foot massages (she looooooooved those!), looking at and discussing with her the two HUGE bulletin boards by her bed that have been covered with pictures of her, her sisters, her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, and finally trying to convice her to eat the gray lump that was supposed to be chicken, or pork, or beef, and the green lump that was supposed to be beans, and the ever-present potatoes and gravy. I never thought I'd see the day when my grandmother refused potatoes, but that day has come, and I'm pretty sure Hell has frozen over.

During the first visit, I had been knitting away while my sister took a turn showing Grandma all the cards people had sent her. She saw the knitting needles, and seemed quite interested, so I offered the yarn to feel (nice, soft mohair-like stuff) and inspect my work. Now, my grandmother has been a knitter for well over seventy years, and before I knew it she had the needles from me. (I was only mildly shocked by the fact that I had just been outpowered by an octogenarian stroke patient.) All four of us present held our breath as we watched her attempt to knit with one hand. I swear, the shear power of our stares could have set the needles on fire as we attempted to will her success with our minds. I couldn't believe it: She nearly got it. But then, as I've mentioned before, Grandma is the most determined woman I've ever met.

So the next day, I spoke to Grandma's occupational therapist, and lo and behold, there is such a contraption as a one-handed knitter!!! It's a little wooden block that holds one needle while the knitter works the other one. Amazing. So now re-learning how to knit has become part of her daily therapy. I'm pretty sure she'll have the hang of it before long, and hopefully that will help with the boredom...

Well, I could sit here and write a narrative about the whole trip, but then you'd all likely be bored to tears. Suffice it to say that as a result of this trip I have come to value my family even more than I previously did (which is definitely saying something), and have learned a multitude about strokes. The most important things I have learned are the following:

1. Every stroke is different- the cause may be the same, but the effects vary so much with every patient that you should not allow yourself to by filled with hope or dread by other people's stories. Just take the situation as it comes, one day at a time.

2. Should your loved one survive the stroke itself and be given a chance to rehabilitate, remember that the road to recovery is a very very bumpy one, and is by no means assured. There will be bad and very bad days; days when you're sure that, even though your loved one has survived the stroke, he or she is still gone forever. But there will also be good days; when you almost forget that he or she is sick. These are the days to look for and to treasure; they'll keep you going through the bad ones. I promise.

Off to see the wizard...

Well, ok... you got me. I'm not technically going to see the wizard. But I am going to see my Grandma. See you all next week! Have a great weekend!

:D

For Grandma

My grandma is sick. Last Sunday morning, she had what the doctors have now confirmed to be a stroke, and has been in the hospital ever since. My family has not lived within easy driving distance of my grandmother's house for quite some time, and so my father has flown to the Soo (Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario for those of you who are uninitiated) to be at her side. His sisters and two of my grandmother's sisters are there as well. My uncle is anxiously awaiting his flight from the West Coast. At first, we thought that the damage from the stroke was relatively minimal, affecting her speech somewhat, and weakening one side of her body, but the doctors have informed the family that the stroke is 'evolving', that the damage is spreading. I didn't know that strokes could do that. This is a cruel way to find out.

As luck would have it, my father and his younger brother and sister had just returned from visiting the Soo. I thank God, Buddha, Allah, the sweet baby Jesus, and the time-space continuum that they all made that trip. For their sakes, as well as for Grandma's.

On Friday, the hospital set up a 'family conference'. This is a meeting in which the patient's condition is discussed with the family and the patient. Everyone (and I do mean EVERYONE) who has had any involvement with my Grandma's care was present, along with all available family members and a social worker (who is there to make sure the family is doing ok). From what I can tell, the care has been excellent, and the doctors are great, but all anybody seems to be able to tell us can be summed up in three awful little words: wait and see.

So while my family is waiting and seeing what the fate of our beloved matriarch will be, I thought I'd take some time to tell you about the remarkable woman that is my grandma.

Born on December 28th, 1919 (for those of you that know me, that means that I was my Grandma's 60th Birthday present), Beulah Marguerite Carkner (nee Lawrence) is the oldest of thirteen kids, (8 of whom are still living). Beulah grew up on a farm near Hartland, New Brunswick, in the heart of the potato, and bible belt. She helped to raise her younger siblings through the Depression, babysat the future magnates of the potato world, Wallace and Harrison McCain, and as a young woman, moved to Saint John to work as a nurse. At one point, her youngest brother, then just a baby, was very sick. In a last ditch effort to save him, my great grandmother, Mildred Lawrence, brought him to Saint John, where my grandmother was able to save his life by giving him the simplest gift of all: a transfusion of her blood.

I should note that although it has been over sixty years since she left the Hartland area, my grandmother has the uncanny ability to recall near complete narratives of the area and its people. Once, on a drive through her old 'neighbourhood', she charmed us all with the family histories of each house that we passed (including one hilarious story about the McCain boys). Her stories have brought my distant family home to me, and to the rest of her children, grandchildren, nieces, and nephews, helping us all to understand where we've come from. And when she gets together with her brothers and sisters, watch out! 'Cause the family narratives flow like a river. There's nothing that is more of a comfort to me than listening to the tales of my family. But I digress.

When World War II began, Grandma left New Brunswick to work as a nurse on the base at Summerside, Prince Edward Island. It was here that she met my grandfather, Wallace (Wally) Carkner. They were married on December 30th, 1943, shortly before he was shipped overseas. My Grandmother would go on to give birth to six babies in the next thirteen years, the third of whom would become my father.

Now, my grandmother is a strong-willed, intelligent woman, and always has been. She was hardly the ideal of the 'obedient' wife of the mid-20th century. In fact, I suspect that Grandma would give many of the young 'liberated' women of today a run for their money when it comes to independence of spirit and speaking her mind. These personality traits did not mesh well with my grandfather's ideal of a wife, and thus, despite their love for one another, the marriage would ultimately dissolve. The final strain was the tragic death of their eldest son, Terry, in a car accident in 1961. He was only 17 years old. I'm not sure that the family has ever fully recovered.


After my uncle's death, my grandparent's marriage quickly went from bad to worse. The separation was not a pleasant one, and when the dust settled, my grandmother was forced to leave Ottawa, to return only a handful of times- for the marriage of my parents in 1976, for the birth of my cousin in 1977, and for my Grandfather's funeral in 1992. She had gained custody of her two youngest children (the older three stayed with Grandpa), and settled in Toronto.

I cannot imagine how devastating it must have been for her
to lose her eldest child, and then effectively lose her family as
well as the life that she had known for over two decades, and then
be faced with literally starting all over again. But she did it, all the while raising two teenagers by herself. (By all accounts, this latter task was not exactly all sunshine and picnics, but all parties involved have survived the experience, and my grandmother continues to share an enviable bond with her younger son and daughter).

Here was a woman who had been married for 23 years, and consequently had not worked outside of the home during that time. She needed a career; one that would pay well enough to feed, clothe, and house three people. Her background was in Nursing, but her history of service was not enough to get her a job- she needed certification. So what did my grandmother do? She went back to high school. HIGH SCHOOL, at the age of 47. And obtained her GED. Next, she proceeded to put herself through the Quo Vadis School of Nursing in Toronto. All while working to pay the rent and put food on the table.

Upon receiving her certification, Beulah worked at Toronto General for a year or so, and was then offered a job in the Labour and Delivery Ward of the Sault Ste. Marie General Hospital, where she worked, helping to deliver and care for babies, until her retirement in 1984. I cannot think of a more rewarding way to spend your time. Most people have one or two kids; my grandmother has had hundreds, maybe even thousands. I have even met some of the people she helped bring into this world: I went to school with one in England, and I worked with another right here in Fredericton. They're not kidding when they say it's a small world.

But growing up, I did not know any of this. My grandmother's demeanor is fairly no-nonsense, and I remember that I used to be intimidated by her for that reason. It was not until my grandfather's funeral that I finally figured out that a no-nonsense demeanor does not mean that she loves her family any less. In fact, I think I would be hard pressed to find a woman who loves her family more than my grandma loves hers.

My father tells me that Grandma has asked for pictures of all of her grandkids (there are nine of us) and great grandkids (of which there are now eight) to be placed in her hospital room. I can just imagine a veritable gallery of memories surrounding her as she snoozes and her children look anxiously on. Upon hearing of her request, I realized that I may be out of time, and that I had wasted all those stupid years being intimidated by a woman who would have done just about anything for me. I'm just glad I came to my senses before it was too late, and got to visit her once or twice as an adult, to get to know her as she really is. Now I have my images of her through a child's eyes, as well as some memories from an adult's point

of view.

This is the woman who made me
my first blanket, an article that hardly left my side for the first
seven years of my life, and did not leave my bed until I was thirteen. I still have it. It is disintegrating, so I've preserved it, but it still exists. When the twelve-year-old me couldn't stop crying at my grandfather's funeral, she took me aside and calmed me. She was the only one who could. She is the woman who taught me how to knit, how to ice cookies, and to bake checkerboard cake. She inspired
my first foray into quilting (which is still in progress...), and taught me to love gardening and yard saleing. She attended my undergraduate convocation ceremony, and upon its conclusion presented me with a wall-hanging she had quilted for me. I was floored- it was so beautiful- and all I could do was nod when she said she hoped it was ok. Later that summer, when I traveled by bus for three days to visit her and my aunt, I arrived in the Soo wanting nothing more than a shower and a bed. What I got was a cup of coffee, a set of knitting needles, and some wonderful conversation. I am so glad she didn't let me have what I wanted that day: What I got was infinitely better than any nap ever could be. During that same visit, I remember her telling everyone and anyone that would listen about her granddaughter, the university graduate, potentially a future Prime Minister! I was embarrassed and incredibly pleased at the same time.

So here's to you, Grandma Beulah. I love you so much. Take your time, play some Skip-Bo, and give em' hell.

this one's for T.

My parents recently treated themselves to a
well- deserved holiday. In Paris. For 10 days. Please note that my skin has taken on a green tinge- the tinge of the green-eyed monster- that has only recently started to fade. But I digress. The trip was taken in celebration of 30 years of marriage. Sort of a second honeymoon, I suppose. And of course, being the fantabulously thoughtful parents that they are, they made sure that my sister and I were supplied with a Parisian fashion fix to help get us over the pain of being left here in the anti-fashion capital of the world whilst they went off to enjoy the City of Lights.

And they done good.

Behold:

The cow-hide bag, which is that perfectly rich hue of red and feels like butter;
























The pashmina and silk pashmina that is warm, but not too warm, and makes me feel soooo cosmopolitan;


Also, here are my new boots. My love for them is pure.


























Finally, and this is in no way related to the fashion-lover in me, here is my latest knitting project, which is ~2/3 complete. Rudimentary, I know, but they should get the job done. What do ya'll think?














They're meant to keep my hands warm at the office, which is notoriously chilly in the winter...














My Dad has taken to calling me Bob Cratchet whenever he sees them. Hee.

And yes, Therese, I will be starting work on the shawl soon. I'll keep you up to date!

And yes, I am aware that vegans everywhere are likely taking contracts out on my animal-product loving life. Bring it. I'm ready.