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.

Old Windows

By Pam Hadder

Winter is hanging on - and I’ve been kicking myself for changing all but four windows in my little war-era home. Affectionately called “the sugar cube,” the house is modest but solid, with touches of character and craftsmanship that used to be basic, but are a lost art today.

A few years back, I received a performance bonus, and used it to change out aging windows in the sugar cube, musing happily about the improvements I’d see on my heating bills – all but a small-ish bathroom window, a mid-size kitchen window and two leaded glass piano windows with harlequin-suit-like diamond panes were removed and replace.  The old windows which remain are more predictable than the weather channel - you know it’s getting cold when they fog over, and eventually form icy glaze that can transform into elaborate Jack Frost works of art – unique crystalline patterns, feathering, swirling and spreading across the hyper-chilled surfaces; never two works the same.

My old windows made me recall my young self – perhaps seven or eight years old, coming into the back entrance of the family bungalow to change out sopping wet mitts bedazzled with confounding ice nubs, and warming frozen toes by the electric baseboard heater, before returning to the snow drifts, starry night sky and fort-building.  I was rather famous (in my mind!) for my snow fort construction, including manufacture of my weapons-of-choice: double-iced snow balls!  At all times, my army of one was ready to fight off the enemy.  Of course, my warrior fantasies were only acted out in my imagination, and the ammo was never used. The stockpile would freeze to the ground in a lumpy mass – no surprise that it was the last thing to melt in March, leaving a dead spot on the lawn that my parents attributed to the dog’s “business!”

I recall dreaming about being a princess, a Spanish dancer, a cow girl and other fanciful things while staring at the frost patterns on the back door glass; seeing fanciful shapes in the intriguing abstractions. Sometimes I would drag fingernails through the frost and contribute my interpretations to the surfaces; carving and tracing my visions.  I wonder how many kids still do this?  Have they even seen Jack Frost’s paintings? Could I sell admission tickets to the daycare kids across the lane?  I am doubly blessed – windows that predict the weather and which create artistic interpretations of winter schemes.

Doing My Best

Brownie Handbook

I had a trip back in time this week when my girlfriend and I decided to look in a used book store over lunch hour. We had been in this particular shop before, and had purchased a Julia Child cook book, but we hadn't really spent much time in the place.

Until this week, we hadn't realized how big the shop is - a strange collection of irregular little rooms, awkwardly connected like odd beads on a string; each crammed floor to ceiling with different book categories and sections; and interspersed with jewelery, china, old photos and other collectibles - some treasure and a lot of trash. Squeezing into the fifth and final room in this maze, I found some kids books from the 1950s, 60s and 70s.

I first noticed Nancy Drew - the distinctive turquoise blue binding jumped out at me and I asked my girlfriend if she had read Nancy Drew - my sisters loved them but they were a bit before my time. "No", she replied, "I hated Nancy Drew - she was too perfect and I couldn't relate to her. I liked Trixie Belden - she was kind of a tom boy like me." Well we found some Trixie Belden books - originals from the 50s and some reprints from the 70s, and I wanted to buy her one, but she wasn't interested.

Then I saw it... the Brownie Handbook! It was in pristine condition and only $4.75 -- my eyes teared up as I thumbed through the illustrations. I was eight again, in my brown leotards, beret and tunic - Brownies were uber cool and a pretty big deal for me back in the day!

But I am trying to cut back on frivolous spending, and declutter my life, so I put the book back and stepped out of the past, into my adult shoes, leaving the child inside me dancing around a mushroom while Tawny Owl and my fellow Imps and Pixies looked on.

As we left the store, my girlfriend stopped at the front counter - I thought, just to talk to the shop keeper. Then I saw she had the Brownie Handbook in hand. She just knows what my

heart needs - better than I do sometimes; what can I say?

I am keeping the Handbook on my office desk - a reminder of the little girl who just wanted to do her best every day and have a little fun in the process - a little girl for who the world was full of positivity and promise.