A Different Kind of Remembrance Day

The last few years, I've made a habit of putting up a thoughtful post on Remembrance Day, a post reflecting on the past, on The War. To me, as I learned it from my parents and their generation, The War always refers to World War II. 1939-1945. As if there had not been any other war in the decades previously or since. The scars it left were so deep, even seventy years and two generations later they still hurt.

But this year, I don't want to talk about The War. Because this year, on Remembrance Day weekend, I was engaged in a remembrance of a different kind: I got to go to the 80th birthday celebration of a dear aunt of mine. It was a wonderful party: over eighty people jammed into her daughter's house, eating, talking, laughing, hugging my tiny little aunt who was walking through the crowd of her friends with a great big smile on her face...

Laughing - did I mention laughing? We laughed so hard we had tears running down our faces. Her four granddaughters put on a skit, poking fun at some of her traits. One of the girls acted "Oma", complete with her coat, slacks, shoes, the wig she wore when she had chemotherapy four years ago, and her thick German accent. The funniest bit bar none was when the play "neighbour" talked to the play "Oma", discussing her propensity for making friends with anybody and everybody (that very propensity which was responsible for the crowd of 80+ guests).
"I know you like getting to the mail box at the right time so you can talk to the mail carrier, don't you. You probably even know her name - what's she called?" says the "neighbour".
Play "Oma" replies: "Oh, her name is Jane!"
"No, it's not," interjects the real Oma quite positively, "it's Michelle!"

It was wonderful to celebrate the life of this little woman whose eighty years on this earth have by no means been easy. From having to flee wartime Poland as a child to a bout of cancer in her seventies which we all thought would kill her, through personal difficulties and health struggles, she carried on, and poured out love around her wherever she went. Some of that love was palpable in my cousin's house this past Sunday, flowing back in waves from her children, grandchildren and many, many friends towards this small, grey-haired, smiling person in the turquoise blouse.

It was a Remembrance Day of a different kind, and it was a great blessing to be part of it.

Junk Drawer

I have this junk drawer in my kitchen. Okay, I have two junk drawers in my kitchen. One is beside the sink, and it holds things like elastic bands, bus schedules, kitchen scissors, odd screws and bottle caps, cellophane to seal jam jars with, a hand-held cherry pitter, a few candles and batteries, and, for some reason, a yo-yo (green, with a Kermit-like frog face on it).

The other is the one on the opposite corner of the kitchen, at the end of the counter. It started out its life as a stationery drawer, but somehow, other things migrate into it, to the point where it becomes hard to find a pen when you want one. What, I ask you, is that pair of safety goggles doing in there? And there's a tiny little clip-on radio, with earbud headphones. It believe I bought it at the dollar store a while back, when I was briefly convinced that having some music to listen to while I was walking would make me go walking more. It didn't, because I could never figure out how to actually find my favourite station on that radio; it sort of just randomly selects channels when you push the button. (Well, at least that's my excuse, and I'm sticking to it.) So now the radio is parked in the drawer, and my butt is parked in the chair next to it.

Then, there are three rolls of scotch tape in that drawer. Three! Whenever I actually want some, I can never find any, but now that present-wrapping season is over, there they all are, congregated in the drawer, mocking me with their adhesive presence; they, and that big roll of packing tape sitting right front and centre. But the masking tape I keep looking for in there, that's just simply not there any more. It'll probably resurface come Christmas time, when I want the scotch tape and am long done with using masking tape to label plastic containers of food to go into the freezer.

There is also a very small container of Playdoh, which came home in a bag of Halloween candy in the fall; it's probably dried up by now. Next to it is a silly eraser, some pretty stickers, a small calculator, ink cartridges for my fountain pen, and mechanical pencils with and without leads. I'm fairly certain somewhere in the recesses of the drawer there are some ballpoint pens, too; they're probably buried under those notebooks whose pages are all written on already so I can never find a piece of paper to scribble a note on when I need one.

Yes, you're right, of course, it's about time that drawer was cleaned out and reorganized. I usually do it about once a year or so; I think this time, it's been quite a bit longer than that. But part of the problem is that life changes - not just from Scotch Tape Season to Masking Tape Season and back again, but onwards from Playdoh Season to, perhaps, in the not-too-distant future, Reading Glasses Season (or whatever else one might need for middle-aged life). And I haven't quite figured out what this next season holds in junk drawer requirements.

Life, the Universe, and Junk Drawers. I'm sure I'll get to it eventually.

Mountains

Steve won't speak to me. We spent the long weekend with family at the Coast, and I forgot him at home. Here he is, sitting on my bedside table, pouting. I'm really sorry, Steve, but someone had to stay home with the guppies! You know they get scared alone in the fish tank at night.

I didn't even notice that I had forgotten him until we were on our way home. We were heading for the mountains, when suddenly it crossed my mind that my trusty teddy was not with me in my bag. Those aren't small mountains we were heading for, either. It's a 230 km trip from one side to the other; the summit is at 1728 m. There's a special feeling to approaching that last exit on the freeway, that last chance you have to turn off and go back to the flatlands. You mentally run through the list: Gas? Check. Engine coolant? Check. Snacks? Check. Thermos bottle full of tea? Check. Teddy bear? Oops, forgot him!

It's just a little scary to know you're heading into the high mountains, and there won't be another chance to stock up on the essentials until you come back down on the other side. Scary - but also exhilarating. When you pull past that last turnoff, and the steep forests close in on the right and left of the freeway, you know you really are unequivocally on your way. You can't stay in the flatlands, avoiding the scary, lonely, barren mountains, if you want to get where you're going, get home where you belong. You have to take a deep breath, push down your foot on the gas, and just go.

There'll be semi trucks on the way blocking your lane (can't they go in the slow lane where they belong? Sheesh!); there'll be that spot on the side of the road where you got stuck just after 9/11 with four little kids in the car and had to get towed back to safety; there'll be the beauty of the wild river beside the road and the flaking granite of massive Zopkios Ridge, wreathed in a narrow necklace of cloud, towering over you on the left. You'll find yourself suddenly in the middle of a fog bank, barely able to see (haven't those people ever heard of putting on their headlights in a fog? Good grief!), and then just as suddenly have your view sweeping over valleys upon valleys as you crest the summit. And then, you're heading down the hill - faster than you like sometimes, having to put on the brakes to keep yourself from running away - and before you know it, you're out of the mountains. The Lake appears on your right, you sweep around the curve, merge onto the regular highway, and soon have to slow right down to city speed.

And then you're home. You drop the pizza you picked up on the way through town on the counter, kick off your shoes, put your bag into your room, and apologize to your teddy (who won't speak to you; but don't worry, he'll get over it). You wouldn't be here if you hadn't entered those mountains, if you had safely stayed in the flats. "High Mountain Road - Expect Sudden Weather Changes", the sign says. Yes, there are sudden weather changes up in those mountains. And you've got to get through them to get to where you're meant to be.

Life, the Universe, and high mountains to cross. I trust Steve will forgive me eventually.