Summer's End

By Pam Hadder

It’s that time – I can taste the change in the night air; the last precious days of summer. There is this soft haze that filters all of the harsh edges, the scent of ripening permeates yards and gardens, and the afternoon sun gently gilds our world in antique gold.  I feel such comfort and nostalgia in these last sweet days of summer; I think of my grandma, Suzanna, on her farm wearing an old cotton sheath dress and rubber boots. She was my Mother’s mother, and the mother of nine children.  She raised her children through the Great Depression and lived through two World Wars. She lost her husband to cancer when she still had young children at home and a farm to run.  Grandma’s life was not easy.

Mostly I saw Grandma in the summer months; we’d drive out to the country in the family station wagon. I remember so many simple things that are framed in summer’s sunny hues, including pumping water from the old farm well.  I loved the iron taste of that cold, fresh water.  Of course, there had been plumbing at her farm for decades, and the old farm house that housed a family of eleven, plus great-grandpa, had been dismantled, and a smaller home located on the homestead. 

When my Mom was a kid my grandparents raised their own beef and pork.  They had a few dairy cows and chickens – some layers and some roasters.  So not only did Grandma prepare thousands of hearty meals, she helped to raise the lion’s share of the meat and grew the majority of their produce.  Those were the days when rural families had summer kitchens – a place to prepare cooked meals that wouldn’t heat the main house, and provided some relief to the cook in the open air.  Today we are more likely to BBQ or use a microwave – or use the oven anyway, because we have air conditioning!

I often hear from my Mom how Grandma was a phenomenal cook and baker – but by the time I came along she didn’t do much of either – I am sure she exhausted her interest and energies raising a big family through challenging times.  However, I was delighted when she’d offer “store bought” cookies from a clear glass jar hand-painted with colourful fruit – this was a treat we seldom had at home, where my Mom made mostly everything from scratch.  We’d play cards, she’d give us kids money to go the corner store for candy; and she’d nap on the couch with its embroidered black velvet cushions, snoring like a chainsaw.  I recall the Vogue tobacco tin on her window sill and the ever-presence of stale smoke, but I never saw her light up or inhale, or roll up the next smoke. I was a very active, snoopy kid and Grandma would look at me with such warmth and gentleness with her jet-coloured eyes – she got a kick out of me.  I know Grandma was a strict parent, but she showed more tolerance with us kids; grandparenthood typically mellows the disciplinarians among us. I only recall Grandma being angry with me once – I was seven or eight and we were playing Crazy Eights at her tiny kitchen table; “You’re cheating, Grandma!”

My Grandma seemed so ancient to me and yet she was only in her early sixties when she died of bladder cancer – I was ten years old when she left us. My siblings and I used to call her the “old grandma” and our other grandmother in Montreal who wore tailored suits, and sent us sticker books and hand-knit woolens was the “nice grandma,” although we rarely saw her.  I wonder if our Mom heard our remarks and what she thought about it. I recall Old Grandma’s last months - In those days they wouldn’t let little kids into the hospital cancer wards. I remember waiting in the car while my Mom went in to visit Grandma.  Grandma passed away shortly after that visit and I never attended her funeral – my parents didn’t feel kids belonged at funerals, I guess. 

So it seemed to me that one day I was playing Crazy Eights with Grandma and the next she was gone. I have this photo of grandma holding me – she’s sitting on a white painted wooden chair. I love her horn-rimmed glasses and gingham dress.   And, yes, I still sleep in the same position: relaxed mountain climber, supported by "Grandma’s belly" (pillow and comforter surrogates).  Grandma is gazing off into the future; likely my snuggling and sleep-breathing is making her drowsy. Funny the things that stay with us – seemingly inconsequential, but profoundly shaping our perception and interaction.

Another Way?

I recently had an accident and broke my left wrist. It sounds clichéd, but for those of us who have had these experiences we know it’s the truth: a split second and life can be diverted along a completely new trajectory.  Naturally, I am overwhelmingly grateful that the outcome was not worse – broken bones, a bruised bottom, and pulled ligaments are minor in the larger scope of things; the pain is manageable and bones and tissues heal. I also believe these things occur to push us toward places and experiences we are meant to be.  Although, when I said I was overdue for a break from work, this was not what I had in mind!

I have only wept once during this situation, and it was not about pain or the inconveniences of my new one-handedness; it was because I miss playing guitar so much. My lovely girls, Pearl and Badessa, sit mute in their hard cases. They don’t miss my touch, but you should know I love and appreciate them so much that I kiss them after every session!  They are my confidantes, my collaborators, my oases from all of the pressures and stress of making a living and making my way in this complex world. With the girls in mind, I asked the doctor, deftly shaping my temporary cast, if moving my fingers would harm the fractures in my wrist. Happily the answer was “no.” As soon as that back slab was in place, I began gingerly forming air chords and scales with my injured hand, longing for what was temporarily impossible.

As I was leaving the hospital, the doctor ushered me to a computer station and showed me my x-rays. I felt a warm flush of thankfulness. My bones had not been displaced by my sudden, hard fall; they were healthy and strong. The doctor allowed iPhone photos of the screens; later I marveled at the smooth white structures on my x-rays, particularly the intricate bones of the hand. We are fearfully and wonderfully made (Psalm 139:14).

At home and evaluating the repercussions of my injuries, another cause for concern surfaced – my dear Mother has been counting on me for the past few months.  She’s had eye surgery and cannot drive, so once a week we arrange an outing, and I take her to run errands, grocery shop and so forth.  It is never a hardship; it has been a nice opportunity for us to bond and share more than a few laughs. I knew Mom appreciated my willingness and patience, and I recognized how fortunate I was to have a loving mother.  Mom is very healthy, but she’s getting up in years, and she has given so much of her time and energy to her seven children. I wanted to do everything and anything possible for her; so, I worried about my Mom, feeling frustrated that our activities had been curtailed.  I texted my son, my adult daughters, my work contacts and called my Mom.

Yesterday evening Mom called me out of the blue – it was 9:30 p.m. and she had been thinking about me all day:  was I in pain, was I able to sleep; how was I managing. Touched by her concern, I assured her the pain was not too bad – it only hurt when I “forgot” about my broken bones and tried to use my left hand “normally.”  I told Mom that I had finally broke down and took some pain medication – just over-the-counter stuff; because I had refused any prescription pain killers at the hospital. My main reason for succumbing to pain meds was the pulled muscles and ligaments in my right leg which had given me an instant pirate swagger - that might look funny in the movies, but it is no fun in reality. I knew I needed to address that inflammation and keep my body moving. At bedtime I self-administered reiki healing; I had been doing so a few times throughout the day since the incident. I closed my eyes and focused on the pulsing sensation and heat, as directed energy passed over the areas of injury.  I imagined the bones knitting together, glowing with white light. Afterwards I was calm and sleepy – momentarily drained of mental and physical energy.  I reflected with gratitude on my Mom's concern for me and I remembered Mom telling me about a man in her small town when she was a child – he had healing hands, and a gift for setting bones.  Supported by a cloud-like network of cushions and pillows, I drifted into peaceful, comfortable sleep and dreamed of a blue cat and playing guitar.

Midnight, day two, I lay awake – more realities and practicalities were settling in.  I pondered being limited to clothes that would accommodate the bulk of a cast and which allowed for toileting – there would be no help with pants, buttons and zippers at work. What if there was an emergency at work (I work for a women’s crisis centre with limited staffing) – my right leg buckled from time to time, and my left arm was limited in range of motion and ability. I wondered if the doctor would allow me to drive to work – my return trip commute is about two hours each day; I had not considered I might not be able to legally drive with my injuries.

Morning, day three, bathing was a drawn out ritual – like trying to scrub a floor with a feather.  I still feared the shower where I slipped and fell, and so I opted for a bird bath using the sink basin, soap and washcloths. I celebrated being able to grasp my deodorant stick, only to plummet to despair when I found I could not apply adequate pressure to adequately glaze my right underarm with the product.  I satisfied myself with several feeble applications over the same area.  I thought about how hard Mom always worked and how nice she always smelled.  As a kid, I knew when she was going out somewhere special – the scent of Cover Girl face powder, hairspray and a hint of floral cologne. I awkwardly applied a little guava and peach body crème; coaxing two able fingers from my injured hand to pull their weight in the process, and taking care to massage the ligaments and muscles of my right leg. I was temporarily house-bound, but Mom would approve – I was training to "get back out there" as soon as I am able, a butterfly beating its wings against hard glass.

Goodbye False Icons!

By Pam Hadder

Today is an auspicious day. Rising from bed, swinging sleepy limbs out of cotton swathing to face another day, I am delighted to see the sun’s blush just meeting the horizon; we are in sync at last, without need of a jarring alarm – it’s a perfect beginning to the rest of my life.  Into the shower I trundle, happily soaping all those wonderful body parts:  silently thanking my feet, legs, arms, back, breasts, toes, fingers, ears – I am blessed to have a healthy body; thank you, thank you, thank you. 

No more judgment – not from me; never again - the world will judge my female form harshly, but I have chosen to be her one stalwart supporter.  When I emerge from my domestic cocoon and I must face the many false icons of Photoshopped “perfection” online, outdoors, in print – everywhere – and should I feel myself feeling diminished; fading, I will tap along the pathways my counselor has shown me – face, collar bone, ribs, hand; repeat.   Affirmations will flow from my lips like a bird song: “I am wise, I am healthy, I am enough, I am beautiful for who I am; I love and accept myself…”  

I will feel my heart maintain a slow confident beat, faithfully keeping time while I maneuver through the day’s obstacles and successes; I will draw air into lungs that infuse my whole being with vital oxygen, and when I eat I will refuel; energize – I will relish each bite: savoury, sweet, sour, salty. I will not count calories, or steps; nor will I ever use a scale.  I will not judge my worthiness by size, shape, how much or how little I eat – I will not see food as my enemy.  Food is there to nourish us, after all – so I will delight in having the good fortune to select from many fresh food options, and I will luxuriate in its beauty, sensuality and diversity, and in those special times I can share earth’s nutritional bounty with others.

It has taken decades for the child, then a young woman, then a mother to reach this place of feminine certitude – I am, I feel, I appreciate, I blossom, and I am eternal.  When the work day is done, I will stretch and smile, and seek recreation in the things that bring my body and mind healthy stimulation and inspiration: my art, my music, and leisurely time spent outdoors, or in silent reflection, writing, listening or resting. I do not need to justify my choices; I do not need to explain, but I must fully engage as only I can so that I can enjoy my personal potential.  If not today, then when?  We are only certain of this one breath, this one moment after all.

Back to my body – my good, beautiful, healthy body – I solemnly vow that I will honour her.  I will not wear tight polyester, I will not pound my bones against the hard road, I will not pant so hard I taste blood.  I will stand tall and gracefully walk at a pace that feels right in clothes that feel right, I will feel my heart beating strongly, I will enjoy the scents and sights around me; and I will connect with the people around me  with positive energy – when they smile, I will smile back.
  

Some very good women to heal you and inspire your journey:

Limon – http://limonfresh.ca/

Virgie Tovar – https://www.facebook.com/virgie.tovar.1/about

The Mother Load

By Pam Hadder

I have picture of my two girls, my daughters, in my bathroom - 4 x 6 photos in clip frames. They are ages two and four and they are playing at the lakeside. One of the frames has been cracked - an oopsie from their pre-teen years. As I recall, I kept trying to be a Martha Stewart, but kids are hard on things, and after all, things are just things. Nonetheless, the fact that I need to update those frames niggles away at me every time I brush my teeth.  But my days are always full; without reprieve, the weeks and months fly by, and details get lost in the blur.  My Mother warned me that once you have a baby, the calendar pages fly by just like in a black and white movie. Mom didn't tell me about some things though - like when you raise your girls to be independent women, and they become those independent women, that it feels like all of it never happened. Is this the empty nest, or is this symptomatic of some undefined brokenness? 

I remember the first time those wee girls said "Mom" and "Momma" - the sheer joy of them growing and all of the "firsts." My older daughter liked to tickle my toes as I made her dinner: "Tooka, tooka, tooka, Mommy, tooka, tooka, tooka."  And my younger daughter would have spent all day in the baby sling curled into my warm body - if I had the fortitude to carry her for that duration! I feel like I should explain - I did not experience a lot of physical affection during my childhood years, and I wanted to be a different kind of parent than what I had known. I never heard the words, "I love you" from my parents; I think it wasn't considered appropriate for parents to be physically affectionate in their era, but I wanted my babies to know what it meant to be loved, completely and unconditionally - I poured out my words, my hugs, my kisses without reserve.  I did not believe in corporal punishment - I had been beaten, but I used time-outs to discipline my babies. I didn't want my kids to fear me the way I feared my Dad. But somewhere in the busy-ness of working, domestic chores, and all the stuff in between, I finished raising my girls. The butterfly kisses have disappeared like soap bubbles popping on a summer breeze; Momma is no more.

More memories... how I dressed the girls alike, fussed with their hair, read Fox in Sox until my tongue felt numb and worked at crappy jobs so I could spend as much time as possible with them. I remember knitting little sweaters as I dutifully attended Super Bowl parties with their Dad, sewing Halloween costumes in a cold corner of the basement, and falling asleep beside them when singing "I See the Moon" at bed time.  I remember all of the busy mornings, feeding bathing, dressing, playing, reading, walking/hauling, and repeat. The baby powder, the dear little hands holding mine, the raspberry kisses on soft tummies, the tickles.  I remember walking them to school, making brown paper lunch bags with a new doodle for every day, and sweating with anxiety as I walked home from work to pick them up from after school care - oh my God, I always felt guilty because it was sunny outside and they were in the basement of an old school.  How my feet, back and legs hurt from standing all day, how I lost sleep to catch up on laundry and cleaning, and how I fell worthless and powerless because I was always financially strapped. Their childhood was an intense time for me, but I tried to shield them from my struggles and fears. I wanted them to have a better life, more opportunities and more happiness than I had known. But so much of the time I was isolated by the sheer volume of what had to be done, and my fear of what would happen if I tried to change the pattern, let myself emerge from the automaton I had created to manage it all.

At some point the 24/7 care of our children is over, and their friends become closer connections, and the seeds of independence bear fruit - and it may not be a fruit you have ever tasted before. I suppose that a Mother becomes symbolic of everything they are not/don't want to be, and something they can't relate to. So, I suppose I have succeeded: they will be better, they will be different from the imperfect, frightened, ignorant, idealist that was Momma. I have tried to organize girls' outings but their young lives are full and focused on things of which I have only sketchy glimpses. Occasionally they let me buy them a meal.  My younger daughter regales me with stories of how great her friends' Moms are, and my older daughter is a mystery who keeps her communications superficial. I have finally connected the dots, and the image is an unrelatable construct of female parenthood, rather like the female symbol on a washroom entrance. 

So, when we have dinner together, I savour each moment, always hopeful that some trickle of the love that I poured into them will emerge, will morph into this amazing, positive thing that makes their eyes mist over, that makes them remember everything that was Momma - that some little piece of what I did is worthy of their time and memory. But they could be talking to someone on a bus - a random stranger to whom they extend courtesy for  few minutes. I inhale and exhale and drink in their beauty, grateful that at least they will sit and eat with me, grateful for this moment; grateful that I knew motherhood. A perennial optimist, I know I will keep trying, will keep revisiting my memories, and will keep returning to face their rebuffs; their thinly veiled contempt or worse - ambivalence.

My birthday is in July, and this year I was away with my job - it was a special time because it was the first time since I was 14 that I have had a whole month away from work. I had some work commitments, but it was combined with travel in some of the most beautiful areas of Tuscany, Italy.  The whole time I was accessible by email, text and phone. I don't like a fuss, but I do love my children and I have tried to raise them to be mindful of life's milestones - their birthdays were always celebrated; sometimes two or three times to accommodate the demands of family, in-laws and their own school friends. But this birthday passed with no cards, no calls, no texts - nothing. When I got home from my trip, my younger daughter was fussing over buying a card and gift for her former boss (an alcoholic chain smoker about who she constantly complained to me about). At this point, it hit me with painful clarity that Mom, Mommy, Momma was dead - I was just this image, this memory.  

All of the hugs, the sweat, the fears, the work, the tears, the sleeplessness became meaningless in this context. I had to face that it was quite likely that I would never have daughters who called me "just because," or because they wanted to hear my voice, or simply to see how I am doing. Momma was a station along their way, and even the vile former boss now ranked higher. DNA is just DNA, and all of our good intentions are just thoughts, after all. I stretch the pale skin of my lower belly as I shower and trace a soapy finger over the fine white scars.  Yes, this body delivered three babies into the world and gave one baby to the angels, it is a good baby maker and has the marks to prove it's use, and yet it could be any baby maker. My body bears witness to the signs that only one person cares about.

My son is 13 - he still holds my hand and tells me he loves me.  He still talks to me - not just to ask for something or because he needs something. Pinch me; will this time be different, or have I just forgotten these moments with my girls? He is such a sweet child and I fear for him in this world of violence, excess and indifference - most of all, I pray, "Please don't take his love from me." My friends tell me I am a good mother, but because I was cut off from my friends and family for so many years, I have a very small circle of friends - I sometimes worry that "Friend" may go the way of "Momma." I  look through a another sampling of old photos in the bill basket, and they don't feel like they belong to me. I see my old, worn gym hoody has fallen off the door hook again - I look down on it and imagine that is who I am to my girls: a dead grey shell, a husk of some creature that used to exist but is no more. I pick it up and smell the soft cotton - it smells like baby powder.