To the Souls that are intertwined on this journey:
As the snow swirls in and out, so do the people in our lives… we make room, we let go, we share, we become… in sharing our stories other stories are enlivened.
In the advent story - there is waiting, there is pause, there is a holy hush, there is time taken to gather, to celebrate with the song of angels…
In this age we are expected to be in "the know” for politics and world events but our minds and bodies were not made for that. Media is not God. We were made for community and solitary contemplation. We were made to create and make order. It’s those simple moments … when cinnamon orange is in the air or spiced pine and we REMEMBER. It’s the pot of chili shared with slow conversation about the delights and hardships of our lives with a few trusted souls. It’s the laugh in the board game, the song vulnerably shared, the quiet sip of coffee.
In nature, if we pay attention and take our holy night of dark cold or humid tropical, God inspires. Creation was the first act. The first gift. Creation sings the root of why we exist. Our existence is not for our political opinions, our stances or even well intended interests nor our social media squares. What gives your soul the softened slow exhale of belonging? When do you KNOW that even in terror, there is calm, there is goodness, there is right? When do you feel the settled magic of Grace? … Follow that moment, prepare ROOM for that feeling, make intentional space for it.
It has been said that “Life is what happens when you are busy making other plans…” I find that God is like that too… and often I am met with Jesus “on the way" to other events or plans I thought were more important. Yet, I’m learning that flexibility, saying “yes” more often than “no” has given me invaluable moments when God's Grace has shown up. I can get impatient. I can think I’m too busy to take the time for the conversation someone needs to have...but then I miss out. Again and again I’m surprised by how many miracles are in the waiting. Just like advent. I now try to keep our family schedules flexibly open enough - to prepare Him room. Because if Jesus ministered on his way to places, and took time out of his much needed rest, to heal, give food and share stories with others… why am I not? Much of his ministry was “on the way…” travelling, being interrupted, sitting at a well waiting for a drink… stopping at Martha’s home … And as a babe his long awaited birth was an exercise in waiting.
The beauty of this season is that it’s not just about giving. It’s about receiving too. It’s as simple as receiving love. Receiving the stranger. Receiving the long lost friend. Receiving the lonely. Receiving the invitation. Receiving Living water. Accepting the gift when we may not have one to give. It’s simple. It’s that moment when the sun crests into the window and warmth seeps into the soul. May you have that this advent and holiday season.
May you see your gifts and receive with a spirit of thanksgiving! "Who says there can't be magic when the world is in doubt? Who says there can't be joy when the lights go out?" -(Magic lyrics)
Song Choice: Magic- Lindsey Stirling featuring David Archuletta
I wasn’t going to share this, due to misconceptions, judgements and opinions. But there is something to the poetry of BEING that is meant to be shared, despite all of that harsher reality. It’s worth it. Now, let's get the boring political jargon and myths out of the way before my celebratory post:
(My husbands gift to me for this celebration)
**Note on terms: "Indian Status" is what the Government of Canada terms my card due to the treaty. Currently, I know that "Indigenous" is a preferred term. Some of my relatives are all about the terms, while others could not care less. My Grandpa is one of the latter. From an early age he taught me that it is not the words themselves but the way they are stated in, or the love, respect or dignity (or lack thereof) within context given. He has been slurred with the word "Indian" and he has been honoured by the word "Indian." He taught me, when I was a wee one in the early eighties, to be proud of the term. "First Nations" became larger a term as I grew up, followed by "Native," followed by "Aboriginal," and now "Indigenous." I have written about vocabulary on terms based on my Autism diagnosis Click HERE. I feel the same mentality applies. This blog is my home and I am comfortable using the terms interchangeably based on my personal history. I believe each of them has been used for harm but also for good, depending on the person behind the words. I am personally honoured to have each term applied to myself. If you carry wounds from these words, please translate them to words that cause less pain for yourself, but know that I am saying them from a place of empowerment, honouring, and personal heritage. **
**Note on the myths of benefits: I do not live on a reserve, neither do most of my relatives that carry status cards. The government does count my status to give to the band I am registered with, to determine the benefits for that reserve, however where I live, there are not many benefits (if any). No, we do not just get free university. No, we do not all have tax free lives (it does not affect me at all.) The one benefit I have besides border crossing more easily (which I do not really need) is some prescriptions covered (which I have not used in years.) Here is an article on this before any assumptions are made on what I do or do not deserve: https://www.cbc.ca/news/indigenous/indian-status-5-more-things-you-need-to-know-1.3109451 So, if I do not receive benefits, why is it important to me? Why did I apply? Well, that is answered in my post below.
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What does it mean to embrace a heritage, if one is the true definition of a Canadian: A mosiac of varied histories, legacies and nations? As I wrote in THIS (click) post about being Canadian: "I belong to this land. I have cherished its freedom. I am proud that my ancestor from Spain drove cattle from Mexico into the heart of Caribou County. I have often wondered, when I was in the heart of the mountains, if my Indigenous ancestors from the Secwepemc/ Shuswap nation traversed similar paths. I am thankful that my German, Danish, English and Romanian ancestors on the other side of my family tree, found their freedom when they were being persecuted in their home countries. They dug roots so that my down home could run deep. They celebrated that their country allowed for the freedoms of worship, community, health rights, and autonomy. They built up generations for the place I now call home. " (For more on the personal Indigenous/ Spanish history of my Grandpa T. Click HERE)
If I could, I would love to live on the land of each of my ancestral blood ties. I love learning about each of the histories and tracing back as far as I can, into the shared hardships and joys of the different ancestors in my genetic line. It is a crucial part of BEING. Just like my Autism diagnosis was a crucial part of discovering myself, or my MBTI of INFJ. Having my Status card is another piece to the glorious BEING of ME, shaped by generations before. However, just like INFJ or Autistic, these terms do not explain the WHOLE of myself. Genetics ARE important for many aspects of living in health and family, but they are not the END STATEMENT. Family is not only blood, but those who CHOOSE to love. Health is not just genetics but also choices. Complexity is in BEING. There are so many facets. That stated, each layer of self discovery, and honouring roots, adds beauty to life.
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This year has been so full of change, grief, and joy that I almost forgot I had applied. I had given it a brief thought a few weeks ago, wishing that I had my status when I was filling out a form, just so I could honour my Grandfather's roots and state,"Yes, that is in my history." But I couldn't and I promptly was swept away with daily life details. Until yesterday, when my husband walked into my bedroom humming a Native trill that my Grandpa used to sing while he patted my back as a baby, and waving a letter. His face shone with excitement and immediately I KNEW. My sense of home shifted once again. I did not think I could feel more at home, but a settled rootedness grew in an instant of confirmation, before I could even rip open the letter...
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Blood ties appeal to my mystical soul (herbalist/ folklorist/ and nature based, which I call fondly 'witchy' due to my love of all things Harry Potter and Broadway's Wicked.) I am the one who loves nature and feels deep ties to the land. My spirituality has always been connected to nature. God is in every speck. I knew God before I could speak. I FELT Divinity playing in my Grandmother's yard and watching the flowers sway. Before my Christian upbringing combined with my Mystical upbringing gave me words, I had an inner KNOWING. It was easy for me to accept a God I could not see, because I saw and adored the Creation. Talking with others on the topic, I have found my way of seeing the world was not as common as I thought. There were outdoorsy people (which I am NOT) and then there were lovers of nature like me...(See THIS post for more on my love of nature.) I spent much of my childhood on the lands near my band's reserve. My Grandpa would take me on hikes in the forrest to pick Saskatoon berries and blueberries (still some of my favourites!) As I wrote HERE (click):Half of my life growing up I spent at each of my grandparents' houses for the summers in the Cariboo Mountains. Grandpa would take me into the forest and give me instructions on bear safety and the sounds of the forest- most of which I have unfortunately forgotten but some rules stuck. As we trudged up the path, me weary and him bursting with energy, he would stop and point out waterfalls and flowers. The man who would kill to eat, stepped aside to not crush a flower. "Missy, a good person won't leave an imprint in the forest they travel, unless it's to mark their path." He would break twigs off to show me how to know where I have been while looking forward to where I should go. My favourite part was when we'd see the orange/ red peeking out from the grass. Indian Paintbrush. They symbolized Grandpa T. to me. I'd rush over and exclaim, "Grandpa, I found Indian Paintbrush!" He would crouch down and touch the pretty flower weed. "This is fire just like your ancestors. They understood that each living thing is a gift of creation. Each living thing possess the breath God breathed to create." Occasionally he would allow me to pick one and take it home. Grandma would put it in a pretty vase and serve me cookies as I stared at the fiery passion of nature, grateful for my roots.
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A few weeks before he died last October, my brother in law freely took my picture for my application for Status. I was awkward. He, of course, was smooth and charming, so he tried to make me feel at ease with his smile. He told me he read up on it and I was not supposed to smile. As I was walking out, he asked me to inform him if I received my status. I knew he was probably just being polite, but I made a mental note to inform him regardless. Unfortunately, I can not thank him personally once again and tell him I received it. However, I believe in the spiral dances of life. Part of my process oddly carried my husband's German ancestry. His relative was part of the process. That feels a bit more WHOLE.
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My Auntie Donna died a few years ago. She had her Status and always wanted me to get mine. I had applied in my early twenties but the paternal/ maternal laws were different and I was denied. When the laws switched to honour maternal, with my extended family's encouragement and my brother's print offs, I re applied. Honestly, it's a lot of work, as anyone who deals with forms and red tape can attest to, and part of me did not feel like doing the work again only to be denied.
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PRESENCE. My aunt had a presence and part of her essence was driven by her deep love of our Native roots. She knew more about that aspect of our history, and was more attached to our relatives on the reserves. Pre internet, she was constantly researching the background of our original tribe. My Aunt has been on my mind more so than when she first passed away. This last year I have had moments of grief so strong, in random places, remembering her. Recently, we attended an event where a lady sang, "Love Can Build a Bridge." She sounded just like The Judds. I stopped her afterwards and with choked up tears I stated, "You sang beautifully. I felt like my Aunt was sitting beside me. She loved that song and the Judds whom you sounded like. She passed away recently, but I felt her tonight. Thank you." Part of why I applied again, was because of my Auntie Donna. The spiral has circled back and I am incorporating her legacy and Spirit into my own dance of life. I wish I could show her my card. She would have been so excited. I partially re applied because of her. (Click HERE for her tribute post.) My Grandmother, who also recently passed away, also wished this for me and I sent sparks of gratitude to heaven for her part in my story.
***
A few years ago, an Anthropologist/Archeologist was visiting our home to speak at one of our 'Called to Questions' (a monthly gathering where we invite professors from Universities/Tradespeople passionate about their topics etc. to present and enter into dialogue with invited guests.) We conversed on the topic of being Canadian, and what that means. I told her a bit of my history and how I was debating on re applying but felt guilty because I was not full blooded Indigenous. She surprised me with her passion, "It is actually your DUTY to try again. Even if you carry a speck that the government acknowledges, it is a priority to show them the many people of their country who carry these ancient bloodlines. These peoples who lived on this land are integral to our being... many of which helped us to survive here. I study various cultures and have headed up many digs. I especially loved being with the Natives of Nicaragua. From my standpoint, it is not only a duty, but an honour to be able to have ties to the land you walk upon and to state it and show proof of it to those who doubt. I strongly encourage you to re apply."
***
A few months later, I was conversing with my adopted Aunt on my husband's side who is fully Indigenous, I asked her if it would bother her at all...since I clearly have many other bloodlines within me. We had a beautiful conversation but I can recall her saying something akin to, "It's a part of you. I can feel the connection we share of the love of nature. I recognize this in you. I would never hold it against you if you applied. I would celebrate it." And yesterday, when I texted her...she did.
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Canadas National Indigenous Peoples Day is June 21. The mystic in me loves that this is also Summer Solstice/ Litha. (click.) Our family loves to mark the seasons. This year my spiritual worlds collide on this day. I love marking the moon and discovering new names for the moon from the T’exelcemc is even more special.
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These are some of the myriad of reasons I teared up when my Status card arrived. This is why I texted anyone I could think of to celebrate. Most did not bother to acknowledge the beauty in it, but the friends and family who did, KNEW. They KNEW my history, my bonds, my spirituality and their statements of congrats or acknowledgement, whispered understanding, community and connection into my soul. Spiralling into my heart's dance, their voices combined. They are a part of my status too. They are a part of my journey and rooted belonging. On and off, the entire day I felt like I was walking on clouds. I felt euphoric. I felt immense gratitude for belonging, peoples, land, earth and sky. The landscape of ABUNDANCE. I felt closer to God. I was reminded I am still BECOMING. There are more layers to my story, but this is one. This is important. This is me.
I felt belonging.
Post ADDITION : I actually do get one benefit- it turns out my dental is almost all covered- even though I do not live on a reserve- which is amazing as I have terrible teeth and no insurance so now that saves me my teeth and a ton of money!!!
Song Choice: My husband loves this because it's his Viking roots mixed with Native American songs...lol he also played me "Indian Outlaw" which is probably considered culturally inappropriate today but it did remind me of the nineties when I loved the fact that our culture was mentioned in a country song! I loved the beat...so yes, I'm guilty of throwing my head back laughing and dancing along with it in celebration with my family! And of course, anyone who knows me, knows my love of the song "Colours of the Wind" which I have sung to my children for 19 years at bedtime. Iloved Disney's Pocahontas as a child, and still do, despite it being called to cancellation by some. To me it represented aspects of my heritage, when many of those stories were lacking as main heroines at the time. I sang Colours of the Wind to my children every night that I tucked them in (followed by Part of Your World (Little Mermaid) and God Help the Outcasts ( Hunchback) to which I still choke up at every time! The lyrics to Colours of the Wind still apply to our times, "How can there be so much that you don't know? You don't know…" We don't know each path for each person. The riches of the earth are all around us. We are all connected to each other. The hoop of Life spirals amongst us. The wolf cry ignites my spirit. We all need to sing with all the voices of the mountains and paint with the colours of the wind...:
(First pic: Grandma and I. Second pic: Grandma's friend and I.)
Travelling in my mind to Grandma N's home, a province away, I am transported back to a time when worries were few. Fresh childhood smells like her house; rose petals, bread, warm carpet, bound books, and burnt metal from an electrical Westinghouse furnace. I would sit in front of that silver box in her kitchen, with a chair pulled up right in front, on cold nights in my slippers and PJs breathing in the furnace's dusty heat. Sometimes older basements contain that musty "old" odour but grandma's house has a freshness I can't seem to replicate. Maybe it was her many plants? A tradition I am now carrying. After years of unsuccessful attempts at keeping greens alive, eighty-two plants now thrive in our home.
I was inspired by Grandma. She sent succulents in the mail. In front of my home sits a beautiful wild rose bush that she sent to me after my miscarriage. I can still remember opening the brown paper at the mail office and being slightly confused as wet dirt in a plastic bag came out with a thorny stem. Her note with her scrawled handwriting, quick remarks and looped signature warmed my heart. All I have to see is my Grandma's handwriting and I feel more grounded. When the wild rose blooms in the summer, I walk out my front door and breathe in memories. The fragrant rose begets my grandmother's bubbly laugh. Last summer when I was quite sick I would sit beside that rose bush and feel the comfort that happens to me each time I walk into grandma's house.
My Grandmother has never been old to me. Perhaps it's her spry energy that surpasses my own? I can only assume (after watering all her plants) that the two hours of lifting the watering pot and weeding out the nasties has kept her trim. Or maybe her youth comes from the fact that she sees movies like Star Wars or The Hunger Games before we do? Amidst the classics in her library are Lemony Snickets, Harry Potter, and all the new popular choices. I love talking with grandma because we can talk about all the current shows and books. We can nerd out on everything I am passionate about. She thinks I am quirky but secretly, I think that aspect of my persona I inherited from her.
Grandma is known for her blunt statements. She doesn't cushion her delivery but she also doesn't have any intention of hurting anyone. She simply tells it like she sees it, if she's asked. A trait I share. Upon seeing my husband's picture in the paper, my husband asked what she thought, and she unexpectedly remarked, "Wellllll, it's not your best picture." We cracked up. My husband came up to me later and whispered, "Now I know where you get it from and it's a brilliantly funny trait."
In her basement there is a red Radio Flyer wagon crammed and overflowing with Little Golden books in original mint condition. Her washer is a 1979 Inglis and the dryer's label is completely worn off. My Grandmother is modern but not encumbered by modernity. She may have a computer area upstairs but she also has a brown 1964 built in Moffet stove. I love that about her. How she seems to flow seamlessly between tradition and the current now. I can't place her in any time...she just IS. I obtain a great sense of BEING from Grandma.
My daughter noticed how Grandma often hoots at something I will say and chuckles, "Oh (insert my birth name here)." It's said in a endearing sort of way and I feel six again (but in a good way.) My children only get to see Grandma about once every year or two, but this statement has been memorable enough to stick in my twelve year old's heart.
On my children's birthday's Grandma often sends a classic book with a hand scrawled note or a bit of cash. At Christmas time the note was simply, "To P and K and children three. Grandma." The kids love spending time discussing the latest books with her or having her read a story. The last time she visited, she read them a book she often read to me as a child called, "Caps for Sale." In the same reading voice she used on me at night, when I lived with her as a child, she read to them. I was struck with nostalgia. I choked up and had to leave the room because I was overwhelmed with the beauty of the past and the present encompassed in Grandma's voice.
(Caption: Grandma N and my daughter carrying on tradition. Below: Grandma reading in her basement with my three kids.)
Grandma N is trendy and a collector of beautiful things. She is a skilled garage sale enthusiast and has taught me to be thrifty. I can not pay over a certain amount for anything. She taught me how to make beautiful gifts out of re purposed items. Half of my house is furnished with vintage or thrift finds. She loved her crystal collections and tea cups. On many of my birthdays she would send me a very breakable crystal item bubble wrapped in the mail. It's always a delight to discover that these items were one of the many I took out to dust or admire in her Dinning Room cabinet. Washing dishes was a sacred event at Grandma's. Through her window one can gaze on lovely juniper, rose and fern arrangements and trees complete with fairy tale doors. Grandma is a gifted gardener and her yard is a stunning work of art in an unexpected place. I have memories of washing dishes while the sudsy bubbles crept up my arms and my fingers caressed delicate flower shaped bowls, crystal china, and mismatched tea sets. Her eclectic collection dried in the rack and brightened the room with bold, creamy colours, birded coffee cups, and deep blue hues. My eldest son says blue reminds him of Grandma. Yes, deep calming blue and fun whimsical light blue all beget my Grandmother. After dinner I anticipated the dishes with great excitement because of the sensory appeal...something that doesn't happen in my own home.
(Caption: Above my three children in a part of grandma's garden. Below; A corner of blue in grandma's house.)
Her house is steeped in memories and sentimentality. There are so many artifacts in her house that I want and cherish. I have committed many of her items to memory because to me they are not just items...they are pieces of Grandma. Bits of her soul infused into aspects of home that carry her beauty and my childhood to me.
Grandma's husband died when my father was 17. Grandma birthed five children while serving as a pastor's wife. In those days that role demanded way more than it does today ( and that is saying a lot) and often she would have to come up with meals for company when she could barely feed her own kids. Grandma's meals are often distinctly Romanian. I can picture her cinnamon rolls, pies, meats, sausages and peroggies and borscht. They had an interesting life and I never tire of my father and his sibling's legendary stories.
I lived in Grandma's basement in my formative years while my dad tree planted. I had a little room in the corner with a hammock of stuffies above my head and a stack of books beside my bed. Grandma would often tuck me in and read to me story after story. She started my love affair with books.
(Caption: My sister and I with my cousin, grandma and brother)
After my birth family moved to the prairies, we made the trek through the Rockies during the summers. Recently, to the relief of her five children and to my horror she ripped out her speckled shag carpet. I loved that carpet. I asked for a corner of it when they tore it out. The carpet was cozy and warm, a luxury experience for the feet when we did not happen upon sewing needles first. Her carpet downstairs is soft velvet and the rec room boasts a sandpaper silk feel. The stairs gave an air bubble squeak that emanated feelings of homeyness. I was overwhelmed with pure delight with just the ordinary task of walking on that carpet. I have yet to visit her home with the new carpet but I am sure it will shock and sadden me a tad.
A few years ago, my daughter walked through Grandma's home and garden and declared the same things I have said since I was two: "I want to live here forever," "Oh I love this room," "Oh how beautiful." She sensed the mystical background that encompasses the property, she felt the memories press up against her and her little mind was already picking up the sacredness of tradition. The sensory experience grounds me but it also gives me courage to LIVE. No other place casts it's spell so effectively. If I could move this place next door to my home I would in a heartbeat.
(Caption: my daughter, mother, sister, husband and I with my cousin on the end...basically my other sister. I have a cousin on each side that is an only child and both of them practically grew up with us and my children call them aunties.)
Grandma N is in her seventies. She regularly gardens and she is more up to date on current trends then I am. She loves her life. She is spry, she is grey, and she is classy. Her style is distinct. I wish I could pull off that look so beautifully. She often wears turtle necks or button up collared shirts with fantastic jewelry. I can often hear her bracelets clink as she walks. I can visualize her strong yet soft fingers run down the chain on her neck as she adjusts the latest charm she is wearing or her patting her silver hair down gently as it stylishly curves around her chin. I can hear the soft fabrics of her clothes as she moves and sometimes the cracking of her knees from her years of gardening. Her jewelery choices are often classy gold or silver pieces chosen specifically for each outfit. When I was a child she often sewed me outfits for Christmas. I felt so special in all of them and I loved her button collection. I would often ask to look at her sewing stuff to see all the sparkles and shiny thimbles. She made a Paddington shirt with metal Paddington buttons for my brother and she often would sew little Barbie outfits for me. I have one beautiful silk blue cloak for a barbie with silver edging that she created. I felt like my Barbie's were so unique and stylish because of her contributions. We could not afford a lot of Barbie clothes when I was little and Grandma supplied me with a huge bag of outfits I adored.
When I asked each of my children to say what they think of when I mention Grandma N my eldest son replied with; "Tea, blue, roses and her laugh." My youngest smiled and said, "Funny!" My daughter replied, "You and your quirkiness. Her laugh is my favourite... sewing, books, fluffy carpets and trees." Grandma is like Springtime to me. She is fresh, vibrant and brings feelings of hope and creativity with her. I recall moments when I was little of sitting in her bathtub and studying the brown and pink tile patterns surrounded by bubbles. Afterwards, my three year old self would be wrapped snuggly in a towel and would be plopped in front of the warm fire in the living room. It was fantastic.
Grandma is young at heart and she passes on that youthful spirit to myself and my children. She is truly alive and gave me a head start in the embracing life department. She makes me feel like spring has sprung. "Every time I see her face I'm such a happy individual."
"Remember is a place from long ago.
Remember, filled with everything you know. Remember, when you're sad and feeling down. Remember life is just a memory. Remember close your eyes and you can see. Remember, think of all that life can be. Remember."*
I simply have to visualize Grandma's laugh or home or hear her voice in my mind when I am feeling low and once again the beauty of the simple life becomes mine. What memories of yours bring youth and comfort?
Songs that remind me of Grandma N: *Remember by Harry Nilsson, Young at Heart- Michael Buble, You Make Me Feel So Young- Frank Sinatra, Give me the Simple Life- Steve Tyrell.
*This is part two of my Roots series* As of 2018 my grandparents have been married 59 years. As of 2020 my grandma passed away .
There is an aspect of home that can only be found in a smell. I am lucky that my memories associated with this are pleasant ones. The aroma of brewed coffee says, "You're safe, you're home, breath it in." The sharp tang of vinegar carries reminders of pickled beets canning and the changing season of fall. Cinnamon speaks of Thanksgiving and Comfort. Onions tell a tale of richness, satisfying nutrients, and a hearty hearth begging the question of what is under the silver lid. Since I have been five, Grandma T's house has always been less than a few blocks away. Currently, she lives in the front suite of my parents home. Each time I walk to that house I can smell the rich taste of home from the driveway tempting me to stop in and see what is cooking or baking, even if I can not eat it due to dietary needs, the smells alone are divine and a comfort to me. It takes a few minutes in her home to feel balanced again. I just need to breathe the air, say a quick hi to grandma, and go out the door feeling lighter than I was before.
(My mom painted the cowboy on my grandma's bottom shelf- amazing hey?)
My children spend massive amounts of time over at my grandparents suite. My grandparents are still vital and babysit...the benefit of generations marrying young. When my eldest son was seven years old, he sniffed the air outside my grandma T's home and chirped, "It smells like Christmas...you know? That smell of coziness, and the sound of grandma's old country music, and grandma's stove beeping." I was so pleased that he noticed in detail what I have treasured my whole life. Grandma was canning pickled beets. Pickling spice smells like Autumn. Every fall she loads up boxes of beets, pickles, peaches, pears and salsa ingredients and sets to work for days of boiling and mixing. I tried to learn a few times but it never took. I was an epic fail due to Dyspraxia.
(My paternal grandma, hubby and I, Grandpa and Grandma T, my two eldest and my little sister about a decade ago.)
Grandma T is the epitome of the 1950's housewife. Each supper, after slaving away to make a detailed meal that always consists of either potatoes or rice, a canned or frozen vegetable, salad, buns or bread, the main dish, and of course some sort of dessert, she serves my grandpa. I can not remember a time when she does not say, "I need to dish out your grandfather. I know what he likes." Then she TAKES it to him while he sits in his favourite spot waiting. My husband will never receive that level of service from the kitchen!:)
Before one jumps to the conclusion that my grandpa is a chauvinist I need to say that despite some old fashioned ways, he is often the best advocate of women's choice. The 1950's interaction is just their way and grandma LOVES it. If she didn't - I would have a problem with it- but her acts of love revolve around serving and kitchen. She gets depressed if she can not help others in this way. She is amazing and Grandpa is lucky. Grandpa likes to take care of everything else like the garbages, shovelling ect. They have been doing this dance for fifty plus years. Time has had no pull on their roles because they both love what they do on most days.
Cabbage Rolls, grandma's recipe, are the epitome of comfort. My grandmother feeds our family on average once a week. When we were younger and didn't have the healthy food groove we have now, grandma's was usually the only time we would have a full warm meal. Her simple english type comfort food is full of roots and stability. Not only did my children need her meals but it became a welcome respite for a young mom. My eldest son often sighs, "Oh how I love grandma's meals. They are my most favourite." There was a sense of stability and routine that we are unable to give ourselves. It's a different sort of magic than the self discovery and enhancement that went on in our home. In the early years our home smelled like books, paper, bounce, crayons and lavender. Now I can add the smells of nutritious baking from the children and I, and my husband's wonderful cooking, but grandma supplemented until we could slowly find our own foundations.
Grandma would host many of my friends for sleepovers growing up. We loved being doted on by her and watching oldies and musicals and chatting about the "olden days." All my friends growing up called them "Grandma and Grandpa T." We had sleepovers, meals and conversations. As my friends aged, despite their strong faith, my grandparents never pressured them with bible studies or god speak. Instead they teased, accepted, aided, and comforted. Their form of faith often went unspoken. Because of that, teenagers flocked to their home to hear grandpa's old trucker stories and bar brawls and to stare at the wrinkled almost naked woman tattoo on his forearm (from pre grandma days.) They came to be fed comfort food and be clucked over by grandma continually filling their glasses and offering another piece of home made pie. It was a place of acceptance yet the verses on the wall and the bible with the glasses set upon it also told their story too.
Grandma has a distinct style that I have not seen replicated. Like all women from her time era Grandma has a china cabinet full of treasured glass knick knacks and tea cups, but what most women do not own from that era is moose dolls and Indian statues. Their home is full of Native symbolism, backwoods decor, and memorabilia of their rustic homes. They were always really poor, living in shanty homes and struggling to get by. This last year we surprised them while they were spending the summer in the Okanagan and painted the walls, re decorated and built them a shed.
Before: Stark white walls After: Coloured walls (it's tough to tell in the light but the paint is a golden creme colour)
Grandma cried. When decorating I tried to honour her country roots and keep the essence of her and all of her many knick knacks showcased in various ways around the room. I can not see a Moose without thinking of my grandparents. Grandma values history, connections and gifts. Her love languages are acts of service and gifting through meals, baking and pretty things. Christmas is her favourite holiday and she treasures every gift she receives. She places gifts under her tree for weeks or sets them on her couch to show all of us what she received and from whom. Going out of her way and budget, she tries to find the perfect gift for all of those she loves. She helped bring magic into my life. Every time they came back from a trip to BC they brought me a gift...she still does even though I am over thirty...and she carries that tradition with my children. Tinseled 1940's trees remind me of grandma and the breakable hand painted decor. Grandma IS christmas. 1940's crooners also bring up my fond Christmas memories revolving around my parents and grandparents. Nat King Cole crooning "The Christmas Song" feels like a deep part of my soul.
Grandma T has struggled with damaging health issues her entire life, spending weeks in the hospital yet she is one of the strongest, toughest people I know. She lives with pain everyday but that pain does not stop her from serving others, being active and investing in those she loves. If a person she knows is sick grandma is the first person to offer a meal, a hand at chores or her presence...even if she is also sick herself. I often joke to my husband that my grandma in her seventies has more strength and energy than I do. Actually, it's not a joke... she does. She is made of stronger stuff than I am and my LAST talent is acts of service. I am not that girl. But I hope that a bit of her has rubbed off on me in varied ways in that department in ways that I can manifest. Her hair has never been dyed but it has yet to grey, due to the medications she was on in the seventies...horrid, damaging stuff but I guess it left her with one benefit. I misunderstood when I was younger and I thought that greying was an optional part of growing old.
Grandma grew up dirt poor. One Christmas her sisters and her were in their cabin on a snowy night with nothing to eat. They had just finished the last of the lard a couple days prior. Her uncle showed up at the door in his long underwear, soaked from travelling across the river to get to them, with little stockings full of nuts and oranges and a mint candy. Grandma said it felt like he saved her life. She felt like nothing was ever as beautiful as the taste of that delicious orange.
Grandma's stories are heartbreaking. Sometimes I had to tune out because I could not take the pain of what she must have felt. As a child of the eighties, I never really experienced the lack grandma had. While we were poor ourselves in my younger years we did have food...even if it was oatmeal three times a day for awhile or cereal without milk. We had a community that did well around us and shared their wealth. In her younger days, grandma did not always have those resources as everyone around her was struggling. I think she still carries that with her because she panics when her fridge and pantry are not stocked or when food prices go up. She makes sure my fridge always has the essentials and she has supplied our children with food and clothes at times when we did not have the resources to do much. Now we have a lot, more than enough, but grandma built the foundation for much of the goodness we experience now.
Due to unknown Dyspraxia as a young adult and Autism I was not gifted in running a home at first. I have learned my own tricks but there were many Saturdays when grandma would show up. My grandmother used to come to our prairie shack to find
dishes moulding in the sink and laundry decomposing in our back entry. She showed me how to throw the mess quickly into the tub, oven and laundry baskets for unexpected company. She would
throw out the towels that were un-salvageable and proceed to scour the rooms. My
house was a disaster zone for the first four years of marriage. I think
cleaning needs time to learn the tricks of the trade. And it needs to be shown. I also needed to know my own limits. Today, my kids are also an active part of the cleaning so I no longer have to attempt it all on my own, plus I know what works for me and what doesn't. Many of the beautiful things in my home are from grandma. She loves to walk into my home and study all my stuff. She often will call and ask if she can show my house to some strangers or distant relatives. I try to say yes more often then no. It may seem a little odd to give a tour of my home to my grandma's constant company, but I feel that because she did not get what I have, it feels like an extension of her. She is proud of how I have set up our home. A part of her, deep down, wishes she would have had the opportunity I had, I think...and how can I say no to sharing what she feels is also a piece of her? Sometimes it is a little awkward and sometimes I get insecure about how many people I do not know, are aware of the layout of my home and where I live, yet most people she knows I trust. At other times, it's actually quite fantastic. For some reason people are blown away by the inside of my home...they think they are stepping into another world, and the comments that often follow are a boost to the ego. Plus, from time to time we hear stories and make connections that are just a one time event but are memorable. It's stretching but sometimes it's beautiful and I would not have these moments without my grandmother. Below: Grandma's Pantry
With my therapist, I get choked up if we speak about grandma being gone and I can't finish. I switch topics because if I think of what she gives to me, being taken away, I don't know HOW I will keep going on. She is one of my anchor's in life winds. I have had a bit of a princess life in regards to tragedy. I have had my fair share of heartache and emotional and physical pain, but I have YET to experience death of anyone close to me. Grandma is a part of my life routine. I depend on her comforts, her food that heals, and her generosity. She is an aspect of stability I have enjoyed since babyhood. I feel special and loved just by being in her home. Her home smells of protected childhood yet has also allowed for growth. Apparently, smell is the strongest sense to bring a memory yet, I do not experience that aspect much but I do with my grandparents. Smells that beget them are fresh early morning air that reminds me of mountain trips, light cigarette smoke (most of their vehicles smelled of this even though they did not smoke), coffee percolating, garlic, sugar, cinnamon and vinegar and pickling spice. Grandma is a fighter for me and will come to my defence quicker than anyone I know, despite the fact that I remain a bit of a difficult mystery. When she leaves to go to B.C. each summer (they still travel), I feel a tad insecure after a month or so. I am always relieved and excited when their car pulls into the driveway. I try to make sure our family is always at my mom's for supper so we can be home when they arrive. I get swept away by nostalgia and also awed by the present. This is still my life and I still get to enjoy my grandmother's being. All my family jokes that I can not bear to have grandma gone too long if my husband is busy because then I starve. It's true. Grandma is the epitome of all things home. She also has this endearing way of talking at times that begets her country roots. Some of her sayings are back woodsy. She will insert verbs for nouns or say "get them garbages." It happens more when she is tired and I love it. Her home- slanged expressions show innocence, simple roots and a love of the beautiful ordinary. She taught me to embrace coats of many colours...that we can be rich in spirit even if we are poor in money. She loves her country music and is drawn to rustic cabins. Embedded in my being are some of her tastes and her respect for humble beginnings. I find myself loving 1940's/ 1950's light fixtures, patch worked quilts, dishes and distressed wooden furniture. When I watch Mona Lisa Smile I think of grandma. In the film "The Help" grandma mentioned she was poorer than 'the help' themselves and some of her experiences were similar even though she came from a very different background. There is one scene in that movie when the ladies are having a get together and they put a tray of devilled eggs across a scratch on the table. My grandma has that tray and she makes that exact type of devilled eggs for each special occasion. She has the little pickles on a plate and the cut up tomatoes, cheese and meats. She fries up her chicken in Crisco and swirls the mashed potatoes until they are buttery. The food scenes in that movie ARE my childhood and grandma's food still today. She also used tin T.V. trays when I was little and her dishes are those coloured cups and plates. When I watched a few scenes in 'The Help' I felt like I was once again in parts of my youth. It was weird. Grandma managed to maintain that 1950's style in the eighties and nineties. There is a part of me that was born country, born down home rustic, born with 1940/50's style and memory and born with the roots of my grandma. Coffee, Cinnamon,Vinegar and pickling spice are constant reminders of this.
What senses are embedded into your roots?
Post Edit: I feel that the reason I am quite balanced even though I grew up as an undiagnosed Autistic and Dysrpaxic (which was hard in it's own way) is because of the roots I had. My parents and grandparents had opportunities to move but they did not. I have only moved cities three times in my life before the age of five. There is something to be said for the stability of roots and of generations seeking to help support each other through life...then again, if the family is mostly negative I don't think this would be beneficial but I was lucky in my childhood to have stability, positivity and deep roots. More of these posts, and the very different other roots series, are found in the label section on the bottom.
Song Choice: Coat of Many Colours (grandma had a similar experience and this is my eldest son's favourite song)- Dolly Parton, You're my best friend- Don Williams ( her favourite song)
Home by Alan Jackson really reminds me of my grandparents story and mine. The Christmas song- Nat King Cole.
