All is Calm, All is Bright

This column was originally published by Profile Kingston in December 1999.

On the morning of my seventh birthday in October 1961, I walked up the hall from my bedroom to my Mom's. As I approached, I saw a tin of cookies sitting outside her door, as I got closer I saw they were our whole family's favourite. The ones with candied drawings of animals on them. I had known she wasn't well and was away a lot, but now she was at home and I thought that everything would be the way it always was.

Three weeks later, while we were having breakfast, my Dad walked into the kitchen. He told us in a quiet voice that our Mother had passed away during the night. I remember the moment after he told us, the room, for that matter, the whole world fell silent. Then, just as quickly, everyone started to cry.

The funeral was held on October 31. As in many country communities, the service was held at our house. I remember all the tears that were shed. Most of all I remember my Uncle Doug, my mother's younger brother. He always had a joke or a smile for every niece and nephew. To this day he still does.

My Dad came into my room one night, he asked me if I was OK. I thought I was. But I asked him where my Mommy was. He told me that she had died and had gone away. “Forever?” I asked. “Yes son, forever.” “Where did she go?” I asked. He picked me up out of my bed and carried me over to the window of my bedroom. “Can you see the stars out there?” He asked me. “Yes,” I said. My father said, “Your Mommy is up there now, she's a star, always shining, always watching over you at night, and she'll be with you forever.” I asked is that where you go when you die. He said, yes. But I must have driven my dad crazy asking him to point out the same star every night. To an adult they all look the same; to a child they're all different.

I have reached a critical stage of my adulthood. I think more of the effect my death would have on my three children than I think of dying itself. My youngest child Catherine is a little older than I was when my mother died. I look at all my kids and wonder how I would feel if I had to leave right now. I see the promise in their eyes, I see myself reflected in their enthusiastic response to life. I want so much to be a part of that life, to watch them grow older, to help them when they make a mistake, to be there when they need me. I think of my mother. I imagine her feelings when she realized she would not see her children grow older. I imagine her helplessness when she realized she would never hold her grandchildren, never to see her own features reflected in yet another generation.

Our oldest child, John is an astute boy, very inquisitive, but he has a very difficult concept to absorb; in fact all our kids do. I remember when he was about three years old and he first became aware of a picture of my Mother, he asked me, 'Who's that, Daddy?' I told him it was my Mommy, his Granny. He looked at me and said in a kind of scolding child’s voice, 'No, no, no, that's not my Granny. My Granny's in Ottawa.'

On a cold afternoon, we all stood by her gravestone. Each child carried a single chrysanthemum to leave for their Granny, the one they never knew. Together, we brushed off the leaves that littered the surface of her grave stone and by doing so revealed the epitaph that we chose to remember her by. Just from seeing the lyric of "Silent Night", I was flooded with memories of how Christmas Eve was with my Mom. All of us singing, dressed to the nines, so Dad could get us on film. Mom in her red Christmas dress, leading us on. At that moment, I heard quite clearly, the full-bodied sound of the piano and the somewhat off kilter singing of the rest of the family gathered around it, 'Sleep in heavenly peace, sleep in heavenly peace.'

You're right guys, it says, 'sleep in heavenly peace', it's from her favourite carol. She's like all of you, she loved Christmas too. John, turned and saw a tear roll down my cheek and as he grasped my hand with concern, he asked me if I was OK. Full circle, I thought: first my father was concerned and now my son is. I smiled at him and said, “Yes, son, I am fine. I was just remembering.

Merry Christmas, Mom.
We love you.

Time Keeps on Slippin'

Even though the days are getting shorter and the nights cooler, it is not that easy forgetting the past summer. I seem not to be the only one that has been looking back at that time of year, several publications have run columns for people to reminisce about their favorite summer.

When I think back among the summers that I have had, it is very hard to place my finger on which one was the best. It is kind of like asking me which of my kids I like the most. They are all special, they are all unique and the are all memorable. To me summer is not that of time but of place and attitude. I spent my summers from the late fifties until the early seventies at our cottage at Grippen Lake. Those years where filled with 'firsts' which make them so memorable. From my first kiss, to that exhilarating feeling of dropping your ski when you first slalom ski. It was evenings just spent with your friends late at night watching the sky as it filled with falling stars. It was meeting people from a different walk of life who turned out to be the closest friends I would have throughout my life.

I have tried to think of a year that was far and beyond the best and I can't do it. The summers run on in my life. One becoming a blur of the next. There was the last summer we spent at the cottage with my Mom before she died, and the look on my children’s face as they first played on the beach. Then there was it the summer of the UFO sightings, or the first summer I spent there alone with my two best friends (now that was a story in itself). I remember sitting there with Paul on one side and Mark on the other seriously debating whether or not we should buy new dishes because the other ones were used. Thank goodness for the kindness shown by 17 year old girls.

Corn roasts, barbecues, fireworks, the canteen, the fresh cold, cold water from the creek, the double and even triple dares we made to see who cold stand the longest in the creek's naturally ice cold water. The loons, the swims out to the Rock, the sojourns to Treasure Island by boat at moonlight (running out of gas also works in a boat). The first beer... I still remember my initial revulsion at the taste. At least I'm glad that changed. The enchanted walks late at night with the girl you wanted to hold hands with...but never did.

As with most people, music marks time in my life. And summer and rock n' roll go hand in hand. I mean who could go through a summer without a Steve Miller album? I hear songs that instantly conjure remembrances of my summers, the things that happened, yeah, the things that were. Can it all be confined to the Summer of Love? No. There are always movements in style, there is always accounting for tastes. But we move on, we graduate, we keep adding to our collective summer memory. It is a constant flow.

I was at a party a while ago, it was hot, there was quite a mix of people there. People my age, people older, people younger, much younger and the music was blaring! I was just groovin' with the tune, a little Bob Seger to make the feet move. My wife and I danced with each other the way we danced back in '76 when we met, oblivious to everything and everyone. But suddenly the music changed and I heard a driving base beat start up, followed by a repetitive back beat that was then accompanied by falsetto singing. A roar exploded from the crowd and people, mostly young people rushed to the dance floor. A crowd of gap mouthed people were edged out of the way by people, young people, wanting to dance to the insipid beat of 'Stayin' Alive'. Disco apparently still lives. As the other survivors of the seventies sat around and watched this phenomenon, I could only shake my head.

As I age though, the series of first has slowed to a trickle. Instead of a summer of exploration, I seem to be getting comfortable in watching my children's summers. So here we are, just kicking back. Summer’s gone, autumn’s here and I’m already looking forward to the next one. And to help me along, I've just popped Steve Miller into the CD for a couple of tunes. "Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin' into the future..." It certainly does Steve, it certainly does.