Family Stories: Fact or Fiction

For those following this blog, you may remember an earlier post that spoke about writing our family stories. As I said then, our families have untold situations, secrets, fascinating characters and events that others would truly be interested in.

This was made clear to me as I finished a new book "The Operator" (by Gretchen Berg). 

I thoroughly enjoyed this novel (clearly labeled as such on the cover). The author's development reinforced my like/dislike of certain characters. The story takes place in the early 1950s and my knowledge of that time is that we were still somewhat limited as a society by what was seen and heard on tv and radio and what newspapers published. The story unfolds in a way that makes sense when we consider the time it is placed in. As I got to know each of the characters in greater detail, their actions also made sense, however misguided I thought they might be.

My subconscious, as I read, understood this was an imaginary story told in an entertaining way.

I always complete a book with the Author's Notes and Acknowledgements. Doing so helps me understand much about both the author and their story.

Spoiler Alert:

I was surprised to learn on reading her notes that the story is 'loosely' based on her grandmother's story. Berg doesn't elaborate on what parts of this tale of characters in a small community are true. Even so, I could picture her finding the (real) newspaper article and spinning it into this unique tale.

Well done, Gretchen Berg. Your first book and a home run!

The Baker's Secret

One morning this past week, out of the blue, my husband asked "Why don't you make bagels?"

I happen to love making bread. The entire process from adding yeast to flour, kneading, rising, baking and then listening to the crackling sound after it comes out of the oven is delightful to me.

And what can I say about eating it - who doesn't love fresh bread right from the oven?

So his suggestion wasn't completely out of left field but I haven't attempted bagels in the past. 

He caught me at the right time, on the right day, and I was soon looking up a recipe I remembered seeing. Turns out bagel making is fun and the finished goodies were ready by lunch time and very much traditional chewy bagels.

Coincidentally, I was reading The Baker's Secret last week. This is not a cookbook but rather a novel about a young baker in occupied France during WWII who is tasked with baking twelve baguettes every day for the German officers. She managed, through ingenuity, to stretch her output to fourteen loaves and shared the hidden extra two with individuals in her community to help stave off starvation.

I don't want to give too much away about this wonderful story but the premise is that members of her community began to ask her for items not available: an egg, extra gasoline, tobacco, even a light bulb. She gave thought to each request and, in recognizing that some people have things they don't want or need, she met everyone's' request.

Of course, there is a war going on. Her town (and her own home) is occupied by the Germans so her efforts require stealth and cooperation from others. There is danger and ugliness in war but this book reminded me of what human beings are capable of.

As I read, I couldn't help but draw a parallel from her actions to today's COVID. Life has simplified for most of us (ie I now make greeting cards by hand and Christmas gifts were largely hand made or passed down) and we've learned to share rather than make unnecessary trips to stores. This reminds me that I have much around my house that I don't want or need but there are others in my community who may want or need these things. 

Reading this book has opened my mind in new ways. A new refrain runs in the back of my mind: Do I have something, or can I do something, that might help?

From the darkness of COVID, I see light breaking through.

Oh, and I also learned how to make bagels.

Traffic Congestion

As the weeks of this shut down continue, walking can accomplish much. Rather than my solitary walks, I'm enjoying walks with a friend now and again to hear how her life is going. We try to walk on little-used routes to avoid the new phenomenon I call 'the Sidewalk Dance'. This is the to'ing and fro'ing that happens as you encounter people coming in the opposite direction.  

I actually feel anxiety when I see people coming. In our winter, with three feet of snow on the ground,  a long stretch of sidewalk without driveways or access to the road can make it problematic on how to avoid each other. The anxiety is heightened by the knowledge that we are within miles of many cases of the more highly transmitted variant of COVID. Since many are not routinely wearing masks while out walking, coming within two feet of someone adds way too much tension to what should be a healthy activity.

Today was a different day. As I walked around my neighbourhood, everyone approaching the roads I walked on turned left, walking ahead of me in the same direction I was. I didn't have to do the avoidance tactic once and maintained my place on the sidewalk throughout my walk.

That was when a brainstorm hit me.

How much more pleasant walking would be if we had pedestrian traffic patterns similar to one way streets for our cars. If, for example, every other street running in parallel directions allowed pedestrians to head east and the in between streets had walkers heading west. We might even have times applied to this pattern with the direction changing at busy times (think of multi lane bridges that have middle lanes that change direction depending on time of day).

I understand there are drawbacks to this plan depending on where your house lies in a block. But weren't these the very issues that the earliest city planners had to deal with when planning streets, intersections, crosswalks, streetlights ... Society accepted all of it with only a few quibblers.

This plan might say quite a bit about me. I am an innovative thinker? I enjoy complex problems? I need to live out in the country away from other people?

I'll just put it down to COVID fatigue and stay indoors (at least until the snow melts).

Ok - not really.

Connections

My father, at the age of 86, said to me that he thought he would be far more adept at living life 100 years ago than he felt living in the 21st century.  Even before dementia stole his mind, so much of life we know today was becoming beyond his understanding. 

Something as simple as television had become technical, complicated by a series of remotes and channel options that require a course of instruction. Even I find it confusing and yearn for the simple ‘Off’ and ‘On’ buttons on old televisions. (OK - I don’t miss the tv of my childhood. My sisters and I had to take turns sitting behind it to press a reset button when it went on the fritz!)

It was unthinkable to imagine him using a computer.

I am like my father in many ways. I might best be described as a 'Luddite', preferring old ways to communicate instead of using technology exclusively. I crave the simplicity we knew before computers.

I admit blogging allows me to practice writing and, like everyone, I use my iPad and laptop to suit my needs. Our family stays in touch through messages that help us all feel a part of each other’s day. And how could I not be grateful for FaceTime during these months at home?

Beyond that I do not venture. Tweeting and FaceBook tempt me not at all. I have always doubted that anyone would find my activities of interest and I’m not pining to learn what others are up to. Those in my circle of family and friends I manage to keep up with through email, telephone calls and letters.

It’s this last option that is my true realm.

Running out of writing paper recently brought a sense of panic. How was I to stay in touch with friends? Letter writing is my ‘thing’.

Writing with a fountain pen releases my creativity and the words I write become a journal entry just for the person I’m writing to. I don’t expect letters in return. A letter allows me to let someone know I’m thinking of them.

Whatever manner we use to stay connected, any 'connecting' we do is a poor imitation of the real thing: sitting side by side with another. Enjoying a cup of tea and a belly laugh (or occasional cry) with a friend deepens relationships. Sleepovers with our family allow opportunities, after grandchildren are tucked in bed, to really learn about their lives and support and celebrate them.

When we are physically together with others, words spoken are given the space to be truly listened to, understood and appreciated.

Remember the “plays well with others” box on our elementary school report cards. Even then, our social interaction with classmates was recognized as essential to our wellbeing and was developed through our classroom play.

So looking forward to playing well with others once again!

The Un-resolution of New Years

If you have a flighty brain as I do, thoughts fly back and forth randomly like a pinball machine. They may start out in one guided direction but soon head wherever they wish. My walk today illustrates this.

It's a gray day but I didn't feel gray; I felt happy as I walked. The weather instantly took me back to a similar wintry day when, as a child,  we were getting into the car to drive to my father's company childrens' Christmas party. 

The anticipation we felt each year for this extravagant party was intense. Held in a large ballroom filled with popcorn making machines; unlimited hot dogs, ice cream and soft drinks; the party was every child's dream. The day included singers and magicians to keep our attention but, as the day wore on, we lined up expectantly and watched beautiful women dressed in velvet elf costumes (it was the 60's) help Santa give each of us our gift and stocking before heading wearily home for another year.

Just like the pinball shoots in other directions, my thoughts soon turned to another wintry walk memory.  

A friend and I were walking to a boy's house after dinner one very cold night. The time it took to walk to his house stands out because I was not allowed in boy's homes (I don't trust boys! said my father of daughters only). The evening had required a certain amount of stealth and I felt like the cat who had swallowed the canary for pulling it off. I well remember my excitement in doing what was forbidden. Everything about it was wrong: these boys were seniors (we were in Grade 9); I was desperately in love with one of them (he never noticed); the house was outside my neighbourhood. The irony about this rebellion was how innocent it turned out to be. These two boys, my friend and I watched "White Christmas" together!

From that living room, my thoughts on this gray day moved to the intensity of that first love.

If, like me, your first love was unrequited, you'll understand when I say that didn't diminish the feelings at the time or the memory it has left. His name rolls off my tongue even today while the names of other boyfriends are long forgotten.

But honestly, what has all of this to do with the price of tea in China (did you have an elderly relative who used this phrase, too?)

Nothing except to point out how undisciplined my thoughts have become throughout these past months. If I am ever to get back to writing my book, I will need to practice self discipline and bring some structure back to my days.

While I don't make New Year's resolutions as a rule, this unusual year presents a compelling time to do so. I'd like to soundly kick 2020 in the ass as it heads out the door and make new plans for the coming year. 

So my un-resolution for 2021 will include structure and self discipline.

I'll keep you posted on how it goes. 

Happy New Year everyone!

The Kindness of Soup

I suspect I'm like many people right now who spend countless hours thinking about, planning and cooking meals during these months at home. I will be forever grateful that I:

(a) learned to cook; and 

(b) enjoy doing so. 

If there is any one category of food that stands out in my life, it would hands down be soup. Oh, sure, some would say I'm pretty fascinated by bread-making but really bread is just a side dish to go with soup so I accept the double love.

I'm drawn to the soup section of every cookbook I encounter and the Pinterest soup posts get my full attention. I'm a lover of the classics (ie Julia Child's Onion Soup) but during this past year I've started looking at new untried options. Two of the new soups which make hearty meals in themselves; tortilla soup and lasagna soup, now join my favourites.

Anyone who knows me knows that soup represents more than just food. 

It is the comfort I welcome when I'm not feeling at all well. During an outbreak of Shingles a few years ago, I remained in my bed because it hurt too much to do otherwise. Each day my husband brought a tray of food in to me - always including soup. It's important to note that, other than cleaning up after me, the kitchen is foreign territory to him. It didn't matter that I knew he had just opened a tin and heated the soup; I appreciated his efforts to care for me. The love they represented likely accelerated my recovery.

When my store was still open, a good friend would sometimes drop in with an elegant tray of homemade goodness. Soup was always included. She is an excellent cook and included me as a taste tester when making something new. This represented the kind of friendship we had; one that valued each other's opinions and included kind gestures.

While I was still working, my mother lived nearby. She would sometimes arrive on my doorstep with a container of soup for our dinner. As a working woman most of her life, my mother was well aware of the pressure of planning dinner after a workday. Since I rarely thought about dinner when leaving the house in the morning, her kindness meant I didn't have to put much thought into it for that evening. When my mother did this, I was reminded of the nurturing she has given me throughout my life. It didn't matter that I was over 50. Making soup for me was her way to nurture me once again.

During COVID, another friend has been delivering 'secret' meals including soups to women she knows are working and who have young families. The additional expectations placed on these families make every kindness we can share increasingly important.

My husband and soup are intertwined in another way. Like most couples married for decades, our relationship doesn't include grand declarations of our feelings. They have been replaced by the many thoughtful things we do that we know will bring the other pleasure.

One of these thoughtful things is the simple act of sliding his soup bowl toward me when we are in a restaurant. This small gesture says "I'm enjoying this soup and would like you to share my enjoyment". Such a simple act and yet it expresses the generosity and intimacy that only two people who have lived through much together share. He can even laugh when, on occasion, I've enjoyed the soup so much that the bowl is nearly empty when it gets back to him.

How often in my younger years did I let the kind gestures of others go by without recognizing what they represent. Thankfully, the busy middle years of life are behind me and I now see how easy it is to touch someone else with the smallest of actions on our part.

Feeling Joy vs Experiencing Joy

As I glance around at Christmas lights and decorated trees; listen to Christmas music; bake cookies to give away; and write my cards, it is possible to still feel joyful during this, the un-Christmas Christmas season.

I'm calling it that for all of the things it isn't. There will be no grandchildren in our home this year. We won't be hosting friends and neighbours for appetizers or brunches. Our town did host a Santa Claus Parade yesterday (thankfully, for the kids) but it was a reverse one; the floats remained stationary and families drove slowly by them. I continue to be amazed by the ingenuity COVID has unleashed, but, still, another example of how different this Christmas is.

While my Christmas joy is present despite our situation this year, my mind has been working to differentiate the joy we associate with this season from true joy. 

I think the joy we experience at Christmas encompasses much. It's the pleasure of doing for others while surrounded by colourful lights and music we've known forever. The small traditions that we carry on year after year bring joy (although a little bedraggled, Santa has been with us for forty plus years and is brought out happily each year). 

The happiness we see on faces around us lightens our hearts and brings a smile to our own. Christmas joy can be spread. I would describe it more as 'feeling' than 'experience': a softening of the hard edges of our usual days.

For me, the experience of true joy is indescribable. It has washed over me at unexpected moments, filling my body and mind with an undefinable radiance, leaving before I fully grasp that it happened. It's ethereal; indistinct and yet the memory of its beauty undeniable. These joyful experiences may have been fleeting and rare but will nonetheless remain with me throughout my life.

To say they happened during a moment is inaccurate. A moment denotes a specific time that is identifiable. I remember the experience of true joy but not the date or time it came over me.

Unlike our Christmas joy, C.S. Lewis wrote that we cannot create (true) joy. It just happens. He describes it in his book "Surprised by Joy":

"Everywhere he looked for Joy he couldn’t find it, though at times when he wasn’t looking for it, Joy would make an appearance and then vanish."

Is this type of joy a message from beyond or an opening within ourselves?

It doesn't matter that words don't exist to help me define true joy. The experience of it has given me a glimpse of what I know I will never understand but which tells me I'm a part of something much larger and greater than my everyday.

Even the everyday of un-Christmas. 

Especially the everyday of un-Christmas.