The Catharine Tree

Back in 1994, I decided to undertake an oral history project pertaining to our family. With this in mind, I asked family members to submit their favourite memories on a variety of topics. Once I’d received these recollections, I typed them up, printed out a booklet and handed them out as gifts to everyone on Christmas Day. We continued this tradition for seven years—that’s seven volumes of family memories which were recorded for future generations to read. 

The first memory to be written down was one that my mother had told us many times over the years. It never fails to move me to tears. It’s a powerful reminder that for many people, Christmas is not a time of joy, but rather a holiday that is filled with pain and personal loss. I think it is also a testament to a young girl who, wise beyond her years, understood that, despite what happens to us, life must go on. To me, it speaks volumes not only about the amazing strength of my mother, but also about the true meaning of Christmas. 

Here is my mother’s story in her own words: 

 

Catharine

 

Back in December, 1939, my oldest sister Catharine, who was almost fifteen years old, developed a boil on her chin. Dad took her to the doctor. He said to bathe her chin with hot water and salt to try and bring the boil to a head. Well, her face swelled up and she was taken to the hospital on Monday, December 19. 

There was no penicillin or other drugs to help. Nor was there a blood bank back then. Dad, his brothers Harvey and Ozzie and the Harris boys all gave blood which the doctor gave to Catharine trying to clear the poison. She had blood poisoning, then lockjaw. A terrible thing. Mom and Dad stayed there for four days.  

 

Catharine died on Thursday, December 22, 1939. The funeral was held at our house. I had never seen so many flowers. The room was packed with them. So many people too. The house was filled with people, upstairs and down; the barn too. She was buried December 24. It was a green Christmas that year, very mild, and I wore my spring coat as I only had a snowsuit.  

 

Catharine and Aunt Anne

 

Our Christmas was never the same again. We lost my grandma on October 6, 1939 and then, Catharine. Catharine often said after Grandma died, “I don’t know how I’ll get along without my Grandma.” It was almost like it was to be—that she went to be with her in heaven. 

It was the saddest Christmas that year. We went to Aunt Anne’s. She kept Rae, age 2, while Catharine was in the hospital.

 

The next year, 1940, Dad didn’t feel like cutting a tree for Christmas. I can remember going out with a handsaw and cutting branches off these huge evergreen trees that stood in a row along the back lane. I tied them together with twine and made a tree. I was twelve years old at the time. We decorated it and it looked pretty good.

I Want...You Want...We All Want What We Want

This week, I watched a clever video on YouTube entitled Zombie Plague Sweeps America which juxtaposed images of Black Friday shoppers with those of Zombies.  Erich Fromm, the author of To Have or To Be, might well have agreed. According to Fromm, there are two styles in which people define themselves: they either add themselves up in terms of what they possess or use themselves up in a process of being. These two modes of existence struggle for the spirit of humankind: the having mode, which concentrates on material possessions, power and aggression, and is the basis of greed, envy and violence and the being mode which is based on love, the pleasure of sharing and productive activity. 



The Reindeer Which I Won in a Drug Store draw.
I was convinced that Santa brought it.

The childhood game of I Want which I played with my siblings recognized these two modes of being. When the Sears’ Christmas catalogue would arrive at our house, my sisters and I would huddle around it on the couch. We would take turns choosing an item off the catalogue page by saying, “I WANT….THIS!” Invariably, the person who got to go first would choose the best item on that particular page. There would be collective groans as the top pick was selected because we would want it too. Then, the next person would choose and the next until all the items on that page were gone. One of the rules of the game was that if it was your turn and one ugly item remained, you still had to choose it. This was also groan-worthy.  

Looking back, I recognize that inherent in this game (invented by us in an era before shopping malls) was the unspoken understanding that yes, you may want things, but the fact is that, as the song goes, you can’t always get what you want. As an adult, I’d add, “And that’s a good thing.” Growing up on the farm in the sixties, we knew that we could want all kinds of things, but the odds of getting them were slim-to-none.



This is my sister's stuffed monkey.
Thou shalt not covet?!

 



Sure, back in public school, I may have thought that I’d die if I didn’t get Go-go boots, but guess what? I didn’t get the boots and although I still talk about them from time to time, I swear I wasn’t scarred for life. Not much anyway! And that Easy Bake Oven that I thought I just had to have doesn’t make a lot of sense in retrospect; not when you consider the fact that we were baking with the real oven at the age of seven or eight.  

This year, my sisters and I made the decision to scale back on the consumerism--to limit the amount we spend and keep our gifts to three each. This was before I read the article on Matthew Ruttan's blog which made a similar suggestion. I like his idea that, in giving three gifts, one can follow the example of the Wise Men by giving one “frankincense” gift that is spiritual; one “gold” gift that is fun and flashy; and one “myrrh” gift that is practical. What I’ve discovered is that, by limiting the number of presents, I’m being more mindful and putting more thought into my choices. 



Edith Stella (Musselwhite) Ferguson

 



In closing, I’d like to take a moment to remember our friend Stella Ferguson who passed away on December 15, 2003. It is ironic that Stella died so close to Christmas because she loved the holiday season. Born in Hampshire, England, she’d often reminisce about her childhood Christmases there—how her mother would save up during the Depression and WWII to make each Christmas special; about mince tarts, puddings and inviting the post man in for a Christmas drink. For Stella, it was all about family, friends and community including one’s village church.  

A stickler for good manners, Stella believed a man should take his hat off when entering a house and was quite vocal about this; so you can imagine how moving it was to watch the hearse carrying her casket drive slowly past a construction crew. One by one, each man took off his hat and held it to his chest as the hearse drove past. I couldn’t think of a more fitting tribute. Stella would have loved it.  

Ten years later, I still miss her. I suspect I speak for everyone who has lost a loved one when I say that I wish you were here to celebrate Christmas with us. Rest assured, you will never be forgotten. Oh, and Stella, when we raise that glass and eat those chocolate-covered gingers in your memory, we will remember what you taught us: that the most precious things in life don’t come with a price tag.

Shine Like A Little Candle

Recently, I received a phone call asking me if I’d help with a local church’s anniversary. Apparently, someone had suggested my name because of my early affiliation with the church as well my background as a local historian. In a way, I think they were surprised when I said, “Yes.” 

To some extent, I surprised myself as I am not a regular church goer. The Presbyterian Church of Canada would call me “an adherent”—a phrase which always reminds me of something that gets stuck on the bottom of one’s shoes—but if I am an adherent, one could be forgiven for thinking that these ties are tenuous at best. Nevertheless, it is my parents' church and the church of my childhood.  

Notice the Blogger's Hat

The fact is that my values are largely Sunday School values. From pre-school until the age of twelve, I attended regularly. At the time, it was by convention and parental edict rather than a personal choice on my part, but I have taken to heart the “Do Unto Others” lessons that I learnt there. Two hymns from that era still resonate with me: God Sees the Little Sparrow Fall and Jesus Bids Us Shine. I like the idea of, and believe that there is, a higher consciousness at work in the world; one that watches over and cares about us. Likewise, the spiritual advice that we are meant to shine like “pure clear lights” in a “world of darkness”—“you in your small corner and I in mine” still makes a lot of sense to me. The world would be an infinitely better place if we all did that.  

When it came time to join the church around the age of twelve, I balked and refused to do so. The argument that all my peers were joining and my mother’s teary pleas didn’t sway me. Truly a child of the 1960’s, I cited two major flaws in the church at that time: 1) They published the amount of money each church member gave in a little booklet for all to read and 2) They did not allow anyone to take communion unless they were an adult member of the Presbyterian Church. I argued that when we gave, we were meant to do it in such a way that one hand didn’t know what the other was doing. As for communion, I said that, under the current rules, Christ himself would be excluded from it.  

 

A Hat Encore

It is noteworthy that both of these practices no longer exist; at the tender age of twelve, I was already a deep thinker and ahead of my time. The mandatory Church clothes that we had to wear—one’s best dress; hat; gloves; purse have given way to more casual attire. I suspect that the sermon on the “evils of Marilyn Monroe” which was preached from the church pulpit during my childhood wouldn’t take place these days either. As a child, I didn’t know who Marilyn was, but I thought she must be a terribly bad person.  

 

During church services in my childhood, it was not uncommon for me to experience what is known in yogic philosophy as Kundalini.  The best way for me to describe it is an electric current moving up one’s spine. Somehow, I knew that this was connected with the sacred or more specifically, God moving through me. Other times, I would sit there quietly counting the many light bulbs in the ceiling. The self-discipline that was required to sit still in one’s seat for an hour each week was useful training for later in life—a kind of sitting meditation that to this day allows me to hear the still, small voice within.  

 

Another Hat Encore

Having said that, I felt equally close to God when I climbed up onto the roof our house at the age of five; carrying a basket of purple grapes and staring up at the clouds in the sky. I spent two days up there on the roof, coming down only for meals and bedtime. During the busy time of harvest on the farm, no one noticed that I was gone. At an early age, I learned that one does not need four walls or a church in order to feel close to God.  

At mid-life and feeling burnt out, I quit my job, walked the Camino in Spain and then, enrolled in Knox College. It puzzled people as to why someone who had drifted away from the church might decide to attend Theological College. All I can say is that I envisioned (incorrectly) that it would be akin to a lively Irish pub filled with folks like Bono who would sit around discussing the “Big Questions” of life. Questioning was at the heart of my own spiritual journey; I was taken aback to find myself in the midst of those who seemed certain in their answers. Needless to say, I fit in like the proverbial square peg and lasted only one term there. 

However, my time at Knox was not a complete loss. Thanks to a class taught by The Rev. Dr. Stuart Macdonald, an extraordinary Professor of Church History, I had the opportunity to learn about the Quakers which was the faith of my Great-Grandmother’s family. During that course, I learned that the Quakers were known as “seekers” or “Children of the Light;” that they believed: that knowledge of God is direct and inward as opposed to coming from an outside authority; that the Light is within all people (not just Christians) and has the power to transform us; that spirituality is an inner experience. Since my time at Knox, I’ve known that, while I might have been raised a Presbyterian, I am Quaker in my thinking and have more in common with the early Christian mystics who went into the desert than with those hard-working souls who make all those delicious church suppers. 

 

So why then, you might ask, would I agree to help the local Presbyterian Church with its Anniversary celebrations? To be truthful, they asked for my help; it happened to require my particular skill set; and so I said, “Yes.” Sometimes, it’s that simple. I think it is to their credit that, given my lapsed status, they were willing to work with me.

At the first meeting, I offered to do research and assemble an Anniversary booklet; I have created a blog on the church’s history as well. In doing so, I’m developing a new appreciation for the church of my childhood and am re-discovering a wonderful community of people that I’ve known for many years.  

Will I become a full-fledged Presbyterian member any time soon? Not likely, but who knows? It’s hard to imagine that I will ever recognize a spiritual authority other than God speaking directly to my own heart, but it has been said that God works in mysterious ways. In the meantime, I am grateful to have been raised in the church and for the lessons that I learned there. Well, other than that Marilyn Monroe thing. I’m sure God will forgive me if I don’t take that one too much to heart.

South of Town

The wind is howling outside. Somehow, it serves as an eerie reminder that this weekend marks the 100^th Anniversary of the Great Storm of 1913.  November 9^th was also the date when the power went out across Eastern North America back in 1965; an event that was immortalized in the Doris Day movie, Where Were You When the Lights Went Out?

 

Sadly, this was also the day that my Grandfather was buried back in 1965. According to my mother, he would often talk about the storm of 1913. Given his farm’s close proximity to Lake Huron, he would have witnessed the events as they were taking place and been of an age to remember it.  A storm of this magnitude would have become part of the local folklore in his community.  The fact that he died on the same weekend many years later seems fitting somehow. 

The phone call came early on a Sunday morning telling us that he had gone out to milk the cows and had been found dead in the barn; later, we learned that he'd died of a heart attack. I was only seven years old at the time. My experience of death had been quite limited up to this point, but I knew that he was gone and that it was very sad. When everyone went downstairs, I sat on the floor of my parents’ bedroom and wrote a poem about him. I have no idea what happened to that poem, but it was the first time that I had ever tried to use the written word to express emotions that seemed too big to say aloud. On an intuitive level, I understood that while my grandfather was gone, he might live on through my words. In that sense, this weekend also marks the date of my birth as a writer.

Images of my grandfather’s death remain vivid in my memory to this day: sitting on the cold, bedroom floor writing the poem; the funeral where our family was closeted away in a little room (picture a closet with church pews) and the funeral director pulling a curtain across at the last minute so we could not see anyone, presumably to shield others from the contagion of our collective grief; sitting in the backseat of the car at the cemetery, shivering; seeing the snow swirl outside the windshield and my mother in the front seat, crying; feeling at a loss as to how to console her; the tea party that was held afterwards in the basement of my aunt’s house where everyone was chatting and laughing over sandwiches and then, looking over and seeing my grandmother sitting at the far end of the table with tears rolling down her face. How dare people laugh when she was so sad? I felt outraged on her behalf. For a child, witnessing such grief can be overwhelming, but I'm glad that the adults in my world did not feel the need to shelter me from their grief or pull the curtain across so I could not witness it. I'm grateful that I was allowed to take part and that I have those memories now.  

Grandma Maddock used to say, “Someday, when I’m south of town…” meaning “Someday, when I’m dead.”  This was just her euphemism for the cemetery where she would be buried eventually; it just happens to be located south of town. South of town puts a lighter spin on what might otherwise be a difficult subject. South of town is like a favourite, old sweater—comforting somehow. When I walk among the graves south of town and see the names of all the old neighbours and friends who have passed on, I am comforted by the fact that I remember them. To me, each name represents a story; each life represents the larger story of our community. Today, I wanted to pause and remember my grandfather and his story; perhaps, one day when I'm south of town, someone will remember mine.

High Flight

A.D. (Don) Haylett

Recently, I wrote about a man named Don Haylett who worked on my grandfather’s farm; as my father recalls, he studied aviation in the evenings by the light of an oil lamp and went on to be an officer in the Royal Canadian Air Force during WWII. To be precise, he was known as Wing Commander A.D. (Arthur Donald) Haylett and was the Chief Instructor at the No. 2 Service Flying Training School at RCAF Station Uplands in Ottawa, Ontario. 

As a teenager, I would often listen to his wartime stories. One of my favourites was about a poem entitled High Flight.  According to Don, the author of this poem, John Gillespie Magee spent time at Uplands. At the time when I was hearing this story, it did not mean a great deal to me as I had never heard of the poem. Being a typical teenager, I half-listened to his tale and never took the time to write down the details.  

However, as I recall, Don told us that the poem was found scribbled on the back of a letter or envelope; that it was discovered in his personal effects after Magee was killed in the war; and that one of Don’s jobs was to deliver the deceased’s personal belongings to their family members. It was fitting that many years later when Don died, this poem was a part of his funeral service.   

In retrospect, I wished I’d listened more carefully because according to the official version, Magee wrote the poem and sent the letter to his parents. Given the short three month window between the time when Magee wrote the poem and when he died, it’s possible the letter was never mailed. It’s also possible that he sent the letter, but kept a copy for himself which was later found in his personal effects.  

Either way, it shows how we can have a personal connection with history. High Flight has been recited by many people over the years; one of the most famous was President Ronald Reagan who, on January 28, 1986, spoke to his fellow Americans about the Challenger disaster. At the end of his speech, he paid homage to Magee's poem by saying that the Challenger Crew, “Slipped the surly bonds of earth to touch the face of God.” 

There is another line in the poem which reads, “Sunward, I’ve climbed and joined the tumbling mirth of sun-split clouds…and done a hundred things you have not dreamed of.”  

Now picture my father and his brother Don growing up on a farm in rural Ontario during the 1930’s. In the midst of this relative isolation, appeared a young British man who worked on their family farm, but who studied aviation at night by the glow of an oil lamp. He must have seemed an exotic creature to them and made them dream of what was possible beyond the limited confines of their rural world.

Uncle Don

It is probably no coincidence that my uncle worked for over sixty years in the aviation industry as a pilot and airline mechanic; that he eventually started a business pertaining to the inspection of jet engines; in turn, his son Don became an airline mechanic and now runs this family-owned business.

I can remember how Uncle Don landed his airplane in the field of our farm back in the 1960’s; to a child growing up in rural Ontario, this seemed terribly exciting. Family folklore says I flopped myself on the couch saying, "I think I'm going to faint!"  In my own defence, I would like to point out that planes didn't land in our fields every day. I’m sure it also fuelled my desire to explore places beyond our small corner of the world.

The Story of Uncle Don Maddock's Career



In addition, my Dad’s cousin Marion, who lived in Michigan, spent her summer holidays on my grandparents’ farm and went on to get her pilot’s licence while still a teenager; this would have been an unusual accomplishment for a young woman in that era. Many years later, as a grandmother in her 60's, Marion bought herself a motorcycle and travelled solo around the world with it.


Dad & His Plane

In his 40’s, my Dad studied for his pilot’s license and with two local men, purchased an airplane that was kept on our farm. As a teenager, one of my jobs was to mow the grass on the plane’s runway. Given this background, it shouldn't be surprising that at the age of seventeen, I boarded my first jet airplane and flew around the world to be a Rotary Exchange Student in Australia.  

At the time, we were told that one of the theories behind the idea of the Rotary Youth Exchange was that of the “ripple effect.”  It was believed that sending young people to live in other countries for a year would lead to a wider "ripple effect" of goodwill and better understanding amongst people of different cultures. Looking back, that has been true in my own family. We forged ties with people in Australia (and also in Brazil because we hosted a girl on Exchange from there) that have lasted for many decades. 




Dad Fuels Uncle Don's Plane

I would argue that “the ripple effect” was also at work in the case of Don Haylett. One young British man had a burning dream to fly; my uncle Don, my Dad and their cousin Marion witnessed this and were inspired to take flight themselves; a generation later, my cousin Don Jr. joined his Dad in the aviation field. Although I have never had the yen to pilot my own plane, I have had one foot planted firmly on the soil of our family farm; the other in airports.  

So I guess we should never underestimate our own individual power and influence. Surely when we dream, we put out our hands and touch the face of God; we also serve as an inspiration for others.  

 

This Remembrance Day, when I stop and observe the official two minutes of silence, it will be for all the men and women who served for our country and fought for our freedom; it will also be for one particular man who, simply by daring to have a dream, changed the course of one family’s life. This one’s for you, Don!

 

Happy Hallowe'en!



Blogger as Pumpkin
Is That Chocolate
In Her Left Hand?!

When I was a child growing up in a rural community back in the 1960’s, we would put together a homemade costume for Hallowe'en. As you can see in the photo to the left, some rural mothers in the 1960's made their children wear a sweater or coat over their costume (not to mention plastic bread bags as rain hats, but that's another story;) even as a three year old, I knew that most self-respecting pumpkins don't wear sweaters, sigh.

A parent would have to drive us around the neighbourhood because the distance between farms was too great to walk. According to rural etiquette, we had to come into each house, sit down on a chair and visit for at least fifteen minutes with the people living there before receiving our treat.  

Fifteen minute visits meant we'd only get to three or four houses in an hour or about eight houses in an evening. As a child, I envied my fellow classmates from town who could “hit” many more houses in a night and therefore, fill their huge bags with “loot;" as an adult, I recognize the real value of our rural Hallowe'en experience: it was an expression of community. We knew our neighbours and they knew us.
 


Sometimes, the treats were homemade: candy apples; caramel popcorn; fudge. Our neighbour Louise made the best brown sugar fudge. Although she has passed on, her fudge lives on in my memory. To pay homage to this wonderful neighbour and our Hallowe'en visits to her house, I thought I would include recipes for it here. Enjoy! 

Brown Sugar Fudge 

Blogger as Sad Clown

2 cups of brown sugar

1/8 teaspoon of cream of tartar (some recipes omit this)

1 tablespoon of butter

2/3 cup of whole milk or light cream

1 teaspoon of vanilla

1 cup of chopped nuts (optional) 

Mix sugar, milk and cream of tartar in a pan. When thoroughly blended, put on the stove and bring to a slow boil, stirring constantly. When mixture comes to a soft ball when dropped into cold water (236 F on a candy thermometer), remove from stove and drop the butter on the mixture and let cool to lukewarm (110F on candy thermometer.) DO NOT STIR IN THE BUTTER YET. When the mixture is lukewarm, add vanilla and nuts and beat until the glossy appearance goes away. Drop a little from a spoon and if it forms, your fudge is ready to pour into a greased 8 inch square pan. Cool and cut into squares. 

Blogger As Witch.
Note the Small Bags!

Chocolate Fudge

2 tablespoons of butter

2/3 cup evaporated milk

1 ½ cups white sugar

¼ teaspoon of salt

2 cups of mini-marshmallows

1 ½ cups chocolate chips

1 teaspoon of vanilla 

Combine butter, evaporated milk, sugar and salt in a medium-sized saucepan with a heavy bottom. Bring to a full boil over medium heat, stirring constantly. Boil for 4-5 minutes, stirring constantly. Remove from heat. Stir in marshmallows, chocolate chips and vanilla. Stir for about one minute until the marshmallows and chips are melted. Pour into a foil-lined 8 inch square baking pan. Chill until firm.

The Sky Is Not the Limit

This week, nine students from our high school had the privilege of attending a talk which Canadian astronaut Chris Hadfield gave at SCITS in Sarnia. The following day, one of the students told me that Hadfield took questions from the audience and that someone asked a “neat question” about whether aliens existed. Since I wasn’t in the audience to hear Hadfield’s response firsthand, I won’t attempt to paraphrase it here, but from what I can gather, he didn’t discount the possibility. 

Don Haylett

When I heard about this, it reminded me of a conversation which I had with the late Don Haylett. Born in England, Don immigrated to Canada by himself at the tender age of fourteen. As a new immigrant, he lived and worked on my grandfather’s farm; at night, he would study aviation by the light of an oil lamp. Eventually, he got his pilot’s license and became a commercial pilot; when WWII broke out, he signed up as an officer with the Royal Canadian Air Force.  

Although he moved on from his early stint as a farmhand, he maintained his friendship with our family throughout the course of his life. I can remember his visits to our house and how one day, as a curious teenager, I quizzed him about the existence of UFOs. As I recall, he got a funny look on his face and said he couldn’t talk about it. In retrospect, I wish I’d been able to break through his reticence and tap into whatever insight he might have had in regard to this subject.  

When I was working as a local historian, I made a point of saving any stories about “the unexplained” that I happened to stumble across in the newspapers. One of my favourites is an article which appeared in the Watford Guide-Advocate on July 21, 1939. The headline read, “Had A Preview of Meteor.”  I believe this refers to the eighty-eight pound meteorite which landed near Dresden, Ontario on July 11^th of that same year.  

According to the article, two women in West Adelaide, Ontario (near Strathroy) were standing on the side of the road, chatting. All at once, a huge mass of rough rock came over the trees and came to rest about six to ten feet from them. The interesting part of the story is that the article reports that “it came down within two feet of the ground and then, all at once, the bottom part broke into sparks like striking flint. Slowly it rose almost straight up and gathering speed swiftly went off in the direction of Detroit. It was brilliantly lighted, so that it lit up the yards around like buildings afire.”  The news report goes on to say that the women were so frightened that they could not recall any colour or noise, but that they said it “was at least six feet high and round at the top like a balloon.” 

To the modern eye, this reads more like a UFO sighting than a “preview” of a meteor which hadn’t yet landed. I’m not much of a scientist, but I’m pretty sure meteors don’t hover above the ground and then, take off in the direction of Detroit! 

Another Watford Guide-Advocate article dating back to February 15, 1889 includes a small news item about a man who was returning home “perfectly sober” one night when he spotted a light a short distance ahead. The article stated that its size attracted his attention and that “he soon discovered by its foolish antics that it belonged to another world.”  It went on to state that the “ghostship followed him home” and then, “sat down on a neighboring hill and watched him all night long.” 

The June 30, 1954 edition of the Alvinston Free Press features a small report about a UFO sighting by Mr. and Mrs. Percy Brown of Aberfeldy which is south of Alvinston. Returning home about midnight one night, they “saw an object, said to be half the size of the moon, with a circular ‘bite’ out of the rear side.”  The object threw a light of various colours and “when first observed, it was high in the sky, then took a dive, seemingly to collide with the earth. About to collide, it swerved upward to a high point, then to the downward way again. It continued these undulations until passing from view.”  The couple stated that the object was travelling at speeds faster than any jet plane they had ever seen. The following month, the Dresden Times reported that groups of “saucers” had been sighted near Florence, Ontario and in nearby Kent County. 

Alvinston Free Press
March 8, 1950

Back in March, 1950, the Alvinston Free Press published a statement by Wing Com. H.D. Haylett, A.F.C., London. He predicted that within the lifetime of those children of “today,” flights to the moon would be achieved. When people living in this small farming community read that statement back in 1950, it must have seemed too fantastic to believe and yet, sixteen years later, this seemingly far-fetched idea became a reality. It is said that at the age of nine, Sarnia-born native Chris Hadfield saw this Apollo moon landing on television and in that moment, decided to be an astronaut; this week, he returned to Sarnia to inspire our next generation of young people.  

We may not fully understand how the universe works, but here on earth, the stories of people like Don Haylett and Chris Hadfield,who gazed up at the sky as young men and dreamed of what could be, have the power to uplift and inspire us. As to speculating on the existence of alien life on other planets or those secret dreams harboured within the individual human heart, I’d like to think that poet Emily Dickinson said it best when she penned the words, “I dwell in possibility.” 

A Simple Act of Gratitude

Recently, someone loaned me a copy of the memoir A Simple Act of Gratitude by John Kralik. It is the true story of a down-on-his-luck man who decides that he might find a way to be grateful for what he has by writing thank you notes—365 notes in one year. 

According to Kralik, expressing those simple words in his own handwriting, over and over again, gradually transformed him; it changed his outlook, his behaviour and ultimately, his life.  

While reading this book one morning, I had an epiphany: I owe my career to a thank you note. I’d forgotten this, but it’s true. Many years ago, I was chosen to be a Rotary Exchange Student for our area; prior to leaving on this twelve month trip to Australia, I attended a conference in Grand Rapids, Michigan and along with other students, was given extensive training on how to conduct myself as an ambassador for Rotary and my home country. One of the many tips which we were given that weekend: when invited to someone’s home for dinner or an overnight visit, we should bring a gift for our hosts and afterwards, send a note of thanks. Their emphasis on the importance of saying, “Thank you” stayed in my head long after the Exchange year was over. 

A decade later, I decided that I wanted to work at the County Library and began applying for every job that was advertised; eventually, I got a phone call for an interview. When I sat down for the interview, the first thing the County Librarian said to me was, “I just want you to know that you’re not going to get this job. You’re not qualified, but you keep applying for jobs here so I decided that I wanted to meet you.” 

Afterwards, I sent a note thanking him for taking the time to interview me, especially considering the fact that I did not have the qualifications to be a Reference Librarian. Months later, I received a phone call from him telling me that there was a student job opening at their library. I was hired for that job; in turn, this led to two part-time jobs and eventually, a full-time position with the County Library—a job that I continued to do without formal library qualifications for the next eighteen years until I returned to university and earned an MLIS degree.

While I'm sure that persistence played a role, expressing gratitude via the concrete act of penning a letter—one simple act of gratitude—undoubtedly helped plant my foot inside the library’s door.  




Postcard Circa 1913

That is a point which Matthew Ruttan makes in his blog this week: that Thanksgiving isn’t just a feeling—it’s an action.  

I’m not suggesting that we all sit down and write a bunch of thank you notes in order to “get stuff” in return, but rather, that we recognize and express gratitude for the many gifts in our lives.






Postcard Circa 1915

For instance, I went to our local small town garage on Saturday and had snow tires put on my car. I’ve been doing business with them for over thirty years now and am grateful for the excellent, friendly service which they provide. As I went to leave after paying my bill, the owner handed me a bag of home grown beets from his garden. It was the perfect harvest “thank you” not only for that day’s business transaction, but also, for a customer service relationship that has lasted decades—in other words, one simple act of gratitude.  



Postcard Circa 1915

Whether it is with a handwritten note, a bag of home grown beets or something that is a unique reflection of you, my challenge to everyone is to find ways to express gratitude for the gifts around you—not just this weekend as you celebrate Thanksgiving (or next month, if you’re American), but throughout the year. May your blessings always be bountiful!

 

Miley Cyrus and the Right to Wear Pants





When You Wear A Dress,
You Have to Make Sure
Your Underwear Doesn't Show



Back in 1970, a small group of girls and I marched down to our high school principal’s office and demanded the right to wear pants. Prior to that impromptu meeting, all female students were required to wear dresses at school. In fact, the rule was enshrined in the handbook of student conduct.  





Wearing Pants With Attitude

Looking back on that episode, I recognize that it was an era in which young people were steeped in media images of activism: students were protesting the Vietnam War; African-Americans were marching for their civil rights under the guidance of Dr. Martin Luther King; women were burning their bras in gestures of solidarity with Gloria Steinham and other feminists who insisted that women deserved equality under the law.

Pants Allow You to Do More Things

Surrounded by these images, is it any wonder why we were inspired and emboldened to challenge authority in our own small corner of the world? Not only did we confront the school’s authority, but we won the right to dress as we pleased.



Styles of Pants Come and Go, But Pants Never Go Out of Style

Within months, both male and female students were wearing faded bell-bottomed jeans with fraying hems. 

 



You Can Still Be A Girly Girl in Pants

Fast forward to this week—an era when feminism is considered by many to be an f-word—and the feud that has erupted between Miley Cyrus and Sinead O'Connor.

Basically, Sinead wrote an open letter to Miley in regard to her recent career choices. The line that caught my eye is how "you unwittingly give the impression that you don't give much of a f--- about yourself." 





Rockin' The Red Pants

Sinead makes a good point. All of us are constantly broadcasting who we are--by how we conduct ourselves in the world--by what we wear, say, do etc.

I can’t help but wonder whether my teenage self would have been able to hear the messages of Dr. King and Ms. Steinham had they been trying to communicate through the din of today’s media.  Let's face it, nearly-naked people swinging around on wrecking balls distract us from more important issues that are going on in the world.
 
In fact, the challenge for school librarians, and I would argue all adults, is to work towards empowering today’s youth through media literacy and specifically, to teach them to think critically so they are able to make intelligent decisions for themselves and hopefully, make a positive difference in the world.

Perhaps Sinead has done us all a favour by starting the conversation.




The Right to Wear Pants Includes Polka Dot Ones

If Miley were a student in our school library, I would suggest that her reaction to Sinead's well-intentioned letter was unkind; that good manners never go out of style and courtesy is a kind of literacy that helps grease the wheels of civilization.

Oh, and Miley, if you don't mind an old lady adding one last thing in the spirit of motherliness and love: Please put your pants back on. Some of us, who went before you, fought hard for your right to wear them.

I Wish I Had My Crayons





The View From Our Front Porch

Years ago, my young niece stood transfixed at the screen door of our farm house, gazing out at the sun which was setting in the west; meanwhile, her mother was upstairs, calling for her to come and have her evening bath.

Lost in the moment and oblivious to something as mundane as a mere bath, my niece exclaimed aloud in voice filled with yearning and awe, “Oh, I wish I had my crayons!”  In that moment, I was swept along with her to a magical place filled with beauty and wonder.



An Artist At Work

Reflecting back on that episode, I recognize that the reason why we were able to bear witness to such beauty was that her attention was there in the moment. She wasn’t focused on the routine tasks that needed to get done before bedtime; she wasn’t worrying about getting into the right university program or climbing up the corporate ladder; she wasn’t fretting about whether she’d have enough money to retire. She was fully present in the moment; in turn, her intense focus drew my attention and together, we immersed ourselves in its magnificent glow.

As Susan Slotnick points out in the CBC article about prisoners and dance, attention is “the heart of love.”

In that moment, my niece’s heart was open to the glorious scene before her eyes. She wasn’t angry at her brother; hurt by some careless comment of a co-worker; bitter about missing out on a promotion; resigned to the fact that life had bestowed all its goodies on others, but had somehow passed her by. Instead, she was utterly and completely in the present gazing out at a beautiful sunset with an open heart and on some level, she recognized that these kinds of moments are fleeting, transient, fluid; being human, she wanted to capture its beauty with the power of her crayons and in doing so, transcend the temporal limits of this world.

The Blogger As A Young Artist

In her open heart, I heard a poignant echo of my own childhood and was transported back to that earlier time.

There has been a lot of talk recently about the disappearance of the bees and Monarch butterflies in Southwestern Ontario.  Monarch butterflies were fixtures in my childhood; something that we took for granted. Milkweed was so plentiful that my mother once offered us a penny a pod to pick them; in a short while, we had picked so many that she had to put a stop to the enterprise, lest we bankrupt her piggy bank.

Ask anyone who was a rural child of my generation living in this area during the summer and chances are they poked holes into the metal lid of a glass jar, filled it with milkweed and put a caterpillar inside; eventually, it would spin its cocoon and however much we might want to keep it forever inside our glass cage, we knew that we had to release it out into the world in order for it to complete its transformation into a beautiful Monarch butterfly.

I would argue that this practice of the jar-and-caterpillar was a type of meditation—a way to focus our attention on and instill an appreciation for the wonders of the natural world.

Thanks to our hyper-focus on efficiency in farming, the milkweed is almost gone from our area now and so it would seem the monarch butterflies. My question is: why didn’t we notice? When something so majestic and beautiful disappears in front of our eyes, why isn’t there a huge hue and cry—the kind of uproar we’d see in Canada if a Stanley Cup hockey final were pre-empted on television? Are we so distracted by the demands of the daily grind—are we so removed from the natural world—that we no longer have the ability to see what is happening in front of us—to mourn its destruction and the part that we, as a human race, have played in it?

This week at the high school library where I work, we handed out photo ID cards to our students; invariably, when students were given their card, they’d take a quick glance at it and then heave a collective groan, “That is so baaaaaad. I look soooooo ugly in that picture.”  

After hearing a few of these self-denigrating comments, I began saying as I handed out the cards, “I just want you to know that you’re beautiful. When you’re my age and you look back at this card and at this time in your life, you’ll realize this.” Invariably, they’d laugh, but hopefully, the thought will stay with them, especially as they make their way out into the world.

Just like the caterpillar in my jar, youth has its own unique beauty, but I would argue that so does each stage of life. I’m sure an elderly person would look at my middle-aged self and ask, “Can you walk without pain or fear of falling? Do you still drive? Are you able to live in your own home without assistance?” and point out that these years are precious and to be savoured. Hopefully, when I’m old, I will be grateful to have lived a full life—appreciate the beauty in having accumulated a degree of wisdom, a heart filled with memories and once again, have the time to gaze upon the wonders of the world around me without sneaking glances at my watch. If my eyesight, strength and/or memory fail me, I would like to think that, on some level, these things will still give me solace.

That is the lesson of the monarch and the sunset, I think. Surely, life is about change and transformation; inherent in that is loss—not the mindless destruction of a habitat and species but rather, of each phase of life. In order to move on to the next stage, we must shed our cocoons, let go of the day’s light, exchange our youth for experience and wisdom and ultimately, give up life itself.

I hope that wherever you are on the path, you will notice, appreciate and protect the fragile splendour of life around you and although I don't have my crayons handy, please know that this article is my way of telling you—and the world—just how beautiful you are.