Places I Remember

There are places I remember All my life though some have changed Some forever, not for better Some have gone and some remain...The Beatles

There are many places I have lived throughout my life, and I remember them all...the good, the bad and the ugly. There is a balance, on looking back...life's balance.

I was born in Hamburg, and I lived in an apartment block. There are disjointed memories of Germany. I was very young. I treasure those memories...when we emigrated I lost my grandparents. And those youthful recollections were to be the only thing I would have of them. But I remember my Opa's garden...a veritable haven for a young child.

My family moved to Canada, to a home I would live in throughout my youth. This home, a long way in the country from any city, would teach me to love solitude, although I didn't realize it when I was an angst-ridden teenager, one who thought she needed friends and activities much more than time alone.

And yet, I couldn't wait to take the school bus home, so that I could take my dog for a long walk through Fields and Forests, loving the days when Wind blew. I would work out many problems on those solitary walks, with my dog listening and passing no judgement.

By the time I moved to my own home, as opposed to my family's, I had already learned to love gardens and Plants, I spoke to Trees...and I discovered I craved solitude. By this time, I was living amongst my friends, living in a large City where activities were never-ending, and where time alone, with Nature as my only companion, was scarce.

I married and moved to Penticton, a city in the interior of BC. It was lovely there...my first husband and I lived in a house in the middle of an Orchard. For years thereafter, I could not buy fruit in the grocery store. The fruit fresh from the Tree tasted like ambrosia, compared to the cardboard offerings, all glitzy and pristine looking, in the stores.

The solitude was there; I was still very young, however, and even if I remembered in the midst of a crowd how I loved to be alone, I still thought I hankered for friends and activities...I still thought I was missing out. We moved back to the Coast, back to Ocean and misty weather.

But I learned I loved fresh fruits and vegetables; I learned, as well, that gardens take work...they don't just happen.

My first husband and I moved to a series of different, forgettable homes, with the exception of life's events that occurred at each...Heidi, at the age of two, falling from the deck two stories above the ground, narrowly missing a sawed off Tree spike, but coming through unscathed, is a memory that still has the power to grind my Heart to a stop.

My first husband and I were youngsters playing at adulthood. We were both seeking the security we had felt at home with our parents. Our first purchase of a house reflected this; the home on Glenside kept us together for five years longer, as we searched for the ever elusive safety net.

She was an older lady, situated at a Crossroad. I planted a garden there, I placed the roots as deeply as I could. For a long while, I wondered. Could I have planted them deeper...could I have helped the garden flourish just a bit more...?

But the marriage ended there, at the Crossroad. And I learned that houses take work, to keep them together and in good shape.

My second husband and I built a home I thought I would be in forever. I loved it; I knew where each stick of wood had been placed. She became, as she grew into a formidable Tudor style home, a part of my soul, and for a long time, after we left her, that part stayed with her.

I planted Hawthorn Trees along the drive, and a huge Wisteria clambered up to the roof, showering a purple haze down the front of Our Lady. There were huge, old Fir Trees in the backyard, and I made paths throughout our Forest, planting violets and bulbs here and there.

Many memories here with Our Lady...it is where the children grew into teens. It is where huge crowds of kids congregated, with Our Lady large enough to embrace them all. Where she witnessed many events by teens who push the adult limit... and where she kept their secrets, all to herself.

During the last years of high school for the girls, we moved once again, very unwillingly this time. My ex-husband gave many good reasons for moving; unarguable reasons. We had horses, which were boarded out. He wanted property.

I learned, no matter how much I loved something, nothing is forever...

We bought almost three acres, about 15 minutes from the town centre. This house, I thought, this house would be my home, my base. I would make it into that, even if there were no signs this house could be this way.

And because I could not take the house apart, I covered the beginning rot with cosmetic applications, and when I could do no more...I concentrated on the garden.

This garden would become the epitome of my dreams, I thought then. I would see the Trees grow to fruition, I would know each and every piece of vegetation growing there, very intimately.

Graduations and weddings and births and deaths were to be experienced here. Recovery from alcohol was due, in large part, to the Secret Forest and the strength I gathered there, from the old Fir and Hemlock and Cedar Trees. This old house we made into a very pretty home and the property she stood on witnessed so many tears, fears...and joys, as well...over the twenty years I lived there.

The most stable...and unstable...twenty years of my life. Where was the elusive security I so desperately hankered for? And what was it?

That security wasn't here, in this old home, I learned. Separations and the subsequent Divorce had me living alone, nurtured by the caring arms of the Trees and garden for three years.

And the garden taught me where that security I searched for really was.

It became obvious to all but me that I could not keep up a sagging Lady and three acres of Land, on my own. It took three years before I worked off the many emotions and tides of anger that constantly threatened to flood me, to overwhelm any seeds of mental well-being which might be taking root.

Three years of solitude, gardening and upkeep...I learned reality is much different for a woman living alone...but I did it! And when it became routine and mundane, when the adrenaline slowed and a glimpse of peace was dawning...I met Graham.

Again, I moved...a more mature and balanced woman, yet one just beginning her journey, had I but known it.

I built a garden here, to show off our Gracious Lady. And I planted these roots very deeply, adding mulch, watching for signs of distress. Then dealing with any problems the minute they arise.

We have lived here five and one-half years, and during that time the garden has flourished...so much so, a neighbour called it a "mature" garden. With the exception of Grandfather Tree, my mentor, it is a young garden showing off its bones...if I look hard enough, I can see the maturity happening, right before my eyes.

And now, it is enough to know I have created it. I have added beauty and Trees where there were none. I have shown what is inside myself, with this garden.

Again, I will leave it. The serenity of this Gracious Lady, who is situated on a Crossroad, has instilled in me a peaceful, loving acceptance of life and where it leads.

A new place to remember is waiting just over the horizon.

I wonder...what will I learn in this new garden?

" All these places have their moments With lovers and friends I still can recall Some are dead and some are living In my life I've loved them all"...The Beatles

Christmas Memories

Years and years ago, when I was a child, Santa Claus came on the day of Christmas Eve. By seven or eight o'clock that night, gifts had been wrapped and placed under the Tree...which was behind closed doors.

Always, I heard the jingle of Reindeer's collars on the roof. Always, in my youngest years, there would be a sister who would tell my youngest sister and I stories, to keep us occupied.

Santa disappeared, I was told, if children caught a glimpse of him, when he delivered presents. Along with all the gifts.

After a meal, we were allowed to view the Tree in its splendorous, bedecked glory, with gifts underneath piled high. As our family grew, the gifts did, as well. At my youngest age of memory, it was overwhelming...I remember well how difficult it was to just stand in one place.

But we were expected to sing Christmas Carols. Before opening gifts. This was one of my mother's favourite traditions...the singing of Carols on Christmas Eve.

As I sang, I calmed down a little, I felt myself lost in the beauty of the old German Carols we sung. I especially remember hearing bells in the heartstoppingly beautiful renditions of the music playing on the record player behind us. Those songs that were played will forever remind me of my mother.

And then, as the spell of the Christmas music consumed me, it was time for gifts. My mother would hand them out, and we were expected to wait until she regained her seat, and able to watch us open them.

I was never quite sure how to react when I opened a gift, and so I resorted to enthusiasm and smiles, regardless of what I privately thought of the gift. And thankfully, attention was never centred on me for long, as there were many family members at home on Christmas Eve. The celebrations lasted long into the Night; Christmas Morning was for sleeping in.

When I became a teenager, Christmas Eve and the gifts I received did not seem as important or as thrilling as when I was a youngster. Could I play with a Sweater or a Skirt? I still wanted new toys, toys that could be played with and assembled and imagined with. I wanted books and art supplies, along with the Sweater. For years, it seems to me, I could not quite clear that hump to adulthood...Christmas was a time for the complete child in me.

One who still wanted to play.

And then, the day after my twentieth birthday, my child was born. And Christmas was forever given over to my children, after that day. The child in me delighted in my children's awestruck demeanour, at Santa Claus, at hiking for a Christmas Tree, at the music that filled the Air. At the toys and books and craft items I could make sure they received. The ones that I really wanted to play with.

My favourite gift is still something I can play with over the Christmas Holidays. A book is always a welcome gift, but for the day after, when adrenaline still runs high, I need to work energy off. I think the Cuisinart I received years ago was a great gift. More vegetables were chopped, pizza dough created, cheese grated over the holidays following receipt of this gift than any other time.

Gourmet foods fairly flew out of the kitchen, with my children and their friends being easy targets that year.

When I married, Christmas traditions I had grown up with, where we opened gifts on Christmas Eve, changed to celebrating on Christmas Day, with gifts opened in the morning.
And in so doing, I lost the wonderment of lighting the Night on Christmas Eve, for a time. I lost some of the awe I felt as we sang those songs...Kling, Glockchen, Klingalingaling...I can hear the words now.

But that is the thing about memories...they are always there, when I want to grab them for a look. And as an adult who knows her own mind, I can play these wonderful old songs, and remember the awe and wonder I felt, so long ago, when I sang them.

In memory of both my parents who have passed on, my mother just recently, I have decided I will find a CD with songs similar to the ones that were sung on Christmas Eve during my childhood. Those were the best Christmases, the ones where childlike innocence still reigned. They were the early years in my life; before bad memories superseded and Christmas became, during some years, a trudging climb to get over.

As I read Sheila's post recently, wherein she spoke of favourite Christmas melodies, the memory of my mother's tradition, where her children sung her favourite songs, with voices clear as bells, on Christmas Eve, came clearly to mind.

With it, came the memory of how wonderfully excited I felt, how the anticipation seemed so much better than the real thing.

Once a year, those memories take me back to an innocent time in my life, where the world's experiences lay ahead of me, and there was nothing to fear, nothing to regret.

And there is no greater gift than that.

Tea and the Samovar

When outside forces have kicked me enough, when Storms are howling, inside and out, when Rain comes slanting down in sheets, mirroring tears...I brew myself a full pot of Tea.

It is the only thing, at times like these...times when howling weather systems pass through, times when the inner spirit is bruised.

As I brew...filling the kettle, choosing from herbal or green Teas, my attention is focused on the ceremony and the comfort of the time honoured preparations.

Nothing else will do, other than my special cup, for times like these. It is only a white mug; at one time, it had flowers on its side that have long since faded. I've had this mug since my children were babies. It is part of me; I know exactly how the rim feels as I drink, with the etching from the faded flowers still apparent to my lips.

It has just the right weight for a bracing cup of Tea; just the right heft to ground me when emotion overwhelms. I know well the distortions and nicks that appear in the bottom of the mug, diffusing through the golden liquid that fills it.

I let Water, fresh and pure, come to the barest beginning boil. Water can have the life boiled out of it; oxygen contributes to infusion of the Tea.

I choose Green leaf Tea. Using my partner's teapot, with the built-in diffuser, I add just enough of the leaves to the pot to brew a mild, light Tea. And since I've chosen Green Tea, I allow Water to come to the barest minimum boil, and then allow it to cool a little, before pouring it over the delicate leaves.

I don't warm the pot; it is a step I leave out of the Tea Ceremony, since I believe it makes little difference, unless the Tea Pot is very cold. I allow the leaves to steep, for a short time...overbrewing leads to a bitter concoction.

As I muse on this, a memory flashes to mind...of a long ago time, when I saw my first Samovar.

Taking my Cup, now filled with a steaming goldy-green liquid, I settle in the Big Chair and take a tentative sip of Tea. It burns a little and I blow on the golden surface, creating tiny tsunamis inside the bowl of the Cup.

Sifting through memories of childhood, since the death of my mother, has odd snippets of events popping up out of nowhere these days; remembrances of a long ago past, of days seen through the innocent gaze of a child younger than my granddaughter.

I don't remember exactly how old I was, probably about eight or nine, when a little girl and I became fast friends. Her name was Ann; she was only a part of my life for a few short months...and then her family moved on.

I admired her because she wore a kerchief to school, over her chestnut hair. There was gossip about her family...they were different, there were eight children, they were poor. And because of the gossip (and her kerchief), I was drawn to her. If she was so different, I reasoned, how come she was always so happy? And what was poor?

She invited me to her home for lunch, a few times. At first, I was hesitant...scuttlebutt around the school was that this family might eat cats and dogs, since they had no money. When I think back, I cannot believe I listened to these vicious rumours, almost keeping my distance. But I loved this little girl; I wanted to spend every moment with her.

I must admit, however, the first meal was looked upon by me with trepidation.

But it was a peanut butter sandwich, which was foreign to me, since we didn't eat that at home. The irony of this escaped me, back then. Peanut Butter was such a normal food for Canadian families; the foods I ate at home, from my German heritage, were certainly not.

In this old house where she lived, was a fine looking urn, which sat upon the mantel piece. I was enthralled with it; I had never seen anything like it. It glinted in Sunbeams that shone from the front window. It had something protruding in the front that looked a little like the faucets at school. There were bowls around it; steam seemed to escape in tiny tendrils, drifting to the ceiling. There was a Tea Pot, that sat right on top of the whole thing.

It was very odd to me, and I couldn't keep my eyes off it.

I might have got lost in this family crowd of children and all their friends. I was certainly quiet enough to melt into the woodwork. But Ann's father noticed my fascination...and he took me by the hand and showed me what he called a Samovar, in broken English. He told me I must never go near it by myself...it was very, very hot.

And then, he went through the ceremony of pouring me a cup of Tea. He did it quickly, fluidly. He removed the bowl, which caught drips, from under the spigot, took a glass from a variety of glasses arranged close by, and took the Tea Pot from the top. He poured a little of the blackest Tea I had ever seen into the glass, added a sugar cube, and placed the cup under the spigot, releasing hot water into the concentrated Tea.

He told me he would add Milk, if I wanted it, but he advised me I was always to try Tea without any additions, first. Then I would know what I was tasting.

He showed me how to drink it. With the remains of the sugar cube held in my lips, somehow, I was to drink the Tea from the glass, through it. He did it well; I covered the front of my shirt with Tea, when I tried it.

The room filled with hilarity; I wanted to shrink, back inside myself. I was not accustomed to being singled out. But there was a difference to this laughter...suddenly everyone wanted to try to drink Tea out of a glass, with a sugar cube. This laughter was not directed at me, was not unkind. It was joyous.

We all wandered back to school, joined by our successes and failures, at something that Ann and her family could do so well. It was a break through. I learned many lessons that day.

I met Ann again, many, many years later. She asked if I remembered her. She was a tall, self-assured woman now, well-groomed, obviously affluent. I didn't recognize her; but there was that strange twinge again, and she flashed before my eyes as a child, with her kerchief covering her hair.

She said...I cried and cried when we moved; my Mother did not know what to do with me. I missed you so much!

With tears suddenly springing to my eyes, I could not speak for a moment. Finally, all I could say was...Me, too.

We chatted for awhile, promised to keep in touch, exchanged addresses. But we were only meant to be the proverbial 'ships in the night'. We did not honour our promise to each other to keep contact...our relationship was what it was.

But I hope I gave back to our short relationship as much as she and her family gave to me.

My Tea grown lukewarm, now, in its Cup, I refresh it and concentrate on the flavour, just as Ann's Dad told me to, so many years ago.

Without the sugar cube.

Remembrances

I was given a copy of Susan V. Bosak's book "Something to Remember Me By" for my birthday in 1998. Bree signed it, at the age of three, with beautiful, varied squiggles. This book is one of my treasures.

I never fail to cry when I read the story.

So it is difficult for me, when I read my mother this small story, to keep the tears at bay. I never know whether or not she understands the whole of the book, but she surprises me always. At some point in my visit, the story will have nudged a memory or two...and we'll return to the past for a short while.

The story is about a little girl who visits her grandmother, usually receiving a memento from her at the end of each visit. Some are strange, some are wonderful, but the little girl keeps them all.

As time passes, life changes. Then it is the little girl, now an adult, who gives to her grandmother. And she understands, finally, why her grandmother gave her all those gifts, and what the most important gift and happiest memory of all is...their love for each other.

I remember as clearly as if it was yesterday, a time when I thought my mother was the bravest person on earth. We remembered that time, she and I, the other day. Her memory is different from mine...but when this incident happened I was about three years old...and of course, she was a grown-up.

We were on a scooter, my Mom and I. My mom was standing; I was sitting behind her. We came upon what looked to me like a very steep hill, deep and long. I gather it wasn't such a steep hill, but to my young eyes, I couldn't imagine going down that long winding hill, without losing control and crashing over the side. To me, it looked as if the road sat on top of a cliff...a drop-off with no end.

But my mother took me and the scooter, and faced that "hill" with panache, letting the scooter travel faster and faster. My heart in my mouth, my eyes as big as saucers, I clung to the seat of the scooter, not at all sure I would make it to my fourth birthday.

At the bottom of the hill, my mother skidded the scooter to a stop, turned to me, said something like...we made it! Her eyes shining, her hair windblown, to me she seemed like a warrior princess. She had faced that "hill" head on, with excitement and anticipation and yes...even as a toddler I felt it...a little fear.

I was in awe of my courageous mother.

And now, as she drifts in and out of reality, the snippets of her memories and mine become more precious each day. My mother was not a saint. She made many, many errors along her life path. Pigheaded, she is only now beginning to understand her life. And she is beginning to forgive, herself and others.

At this stage in her life, those old hurts and sharp pains take on a misty, faded quality. Suddenly, they don't really matter to her much anymore, less and less as the days go by.

Mostly, she lives in the immediate present. Breakfast, a meal partaken of just two hours ago, is forgotten. And that's okay.

The main thing is, she has not forgotten that courage I was so impressed with, when we traveled together down that hill. On a scooter which, she told me later, had terrible brakes.

Some might say it was a foolhardy act...taking a small child down a hill on a scooter with on- again off- again brakes. But my mother told me she knew she could get us down that hill, else she would never have attempted it. She tells me it wasn't a big hill. I don't believe her.

I would rather believe what she taught me that day. Perhaps what loomed as a steep road with terrible drop-offs with no end was not what she saw, but I did. Perhaps a small ditch would be a giant crevasse to my toddler's eyes. From my point of view, Mom faced a huge, seemingly insurmountable problem with awesome courage.

Just as she's displaying now.

This one simple memory is one on which I have based my own hurdles. It is a key...a remembrance which taught me to stand and face my fear, no matter the circumstances.

I have only to conjure up the memory of my mother's eyes shining as she turned to me and said...We made it.