Wednesday 6 July 2005
11:07 a.m.

The other day I let the puppy out of its pen and we went for a long, lovely walk north of the yard, through several barbwire fences, across the hay field, past the clover field, over the summerfallow field, and then back on the gravel road.

We were followed by two screeching hawks that circled above us for about 10 minutes. I stopped often, just to look up at them in wonder. Once a doe appeared and watched us, then bounced away, leaping up and over a fence effortlessly, like it was the lowest hurdle on the course. Later on our walk, she appeared two more times, crossing the road near our house.

The biggest thrill for me was seeing that the prairie tiger lilies (western red lilies, they are properly called) in the ditches have multiplied drastically. They are Saskatchewan’s provincial flower and because they were so overharvested by admirers, it is now illegal to pick them. Perhaps this law is finally paying off. They are so stunning that the urge to take them home is strong, when you happen upon them growing in the wild. They are there in bunches this summer, dozens ...

The batteries in the camera died after I took the photo above, so I don’t have a picture of them yet. Not that this camera will take a good one. But that won’t stop me from trying.

When I got back to the house I came in and felt like phoning Mom, as was my habit before moving to Kelowna last August. The fact that she is not here to be called hit me noticeably. As I was telling Dad when he stopped in on Monday, it still seems as if her absence cannot be real or lasting. He feels the same. Isn’t that strange, considering we were holding her when she died, we sat with her body for several hours afterward, we’ve sorted through all her personal effects and clothing and found new homes for them, Dad’s done all the required paperwork and brought her ashes home in an urn from the funeral home, we’ve been through one funeral “tea” out in BC and are going to endure a memorial in our home town tomorrow, and yet to us she cannot possibly be really, lastingly gone?

This is probably the shock, disbelief, and denial part of the grieving process that is talked about. Yet we knew it was coming, we had time to accept it and even expect it, and so it doesn’t really make sense that we should now be experiencing these things. But we seem to be.

email:

Saturday 2 July 2005
7:54 p.m.

Getting back into the swing of life on the farm ... taking the new puppy for walks and trying to teach her not to jump up and bite, putting bedding plants into pots, driving past lush green fields, and getting chewed up by hummingbird-sized mosquitoes.

Yes, that's an exaggeration.
(scratch scratch)

I've already seen a large hawk sitting on a fence post next to the road, and a heron flew over the van as I drove back from the neighbours' where I bought my annuals. And half a dozen deer (their heads were all that could be seen as these two stood out in the hay field; unfortunately you will have to look very closely to see them in the picture above) and countless gophers. As Robbie Robertson would say, "I like it, it's good."

Stopped in at Grandma's. She looks smaller, if that's possible. I guess it is, because she's lost five pounds or so and is down to about 85.

I must become reaccustomed to dial-up internet service and a telephone that will ring busy when we're online. There is yet a lot of cleaning and organizing to be done before everything is in its place. But I am so happy to be home, I say it to Scott every day -- more than once.

~ I managed not only to pack all
my own stuff in the van, but a
considerable amount of Karen's, too ~

Friday 1 July 2005
8:51 a.m.

Home! Was on the road 20 hours on Monday to get here; once we started, neither Karen nor I wanted to stop. I arrived in our yard at 1 a.m. and when Scott went out around 7 to do his morning chores, he noticed that the van’s right front tire was low. When he came back a short time later, it was completely flat. I have a feeling that tire was low all the way through the mountains ... but now I have a guardian angel, obviously.

It is so good to be here ... I keep repeating myself on that theme ... have been trying to describe it to Scott and finally last night fell back on something similar to what I used to say, explaining how it was to work a 40-hour week outside my home: that it’s as if I took a deep breath when I went out to BC last fall, and now have let it out again. It is not only happiness at being here, but there is a sense of relief. I wouldn’t trade the past months with so much time spent with Mom and all the side benefits of that — the times with my sisters and my niece — but the minute I crossed the Alberta border into Saskatchewan, I exploded with exuberant hooting and hollering even though alone in the vehicle.

The house is packed, with boxes and bags covering every inch of floor space it seems. The first room I tackled was the kitchen; the next day, the bathroom; today, perhaps the office. Have not been driving myself too hard; am taking the time to go out and play with the new puppy a little and yesterday was followed around by the Beckster, Scott’s niece who for some reason likes me quite a bit (strange, because as S says, “You don’t even like kids!” and it’s true, just because a person is a kid doesn’t mean I will take any particular interest in him or her, as is the case with people who love kids) and didn’t want to let me out of her sight after not seeing me for so long. She is about four now, or maybe five.

She says to me, “ So, I heard your mommy died.” Out of the mouths of babes, eh?
“Yes,” I answered. “Would you like to see a picture of her?”
“Yeah!”
We went downstairs to the bedroom, where on the nighttable is propped up a snapshot of Mom alongside one of her with me and my sisters at Christmas, and a large print of Mom and Dad. When Beckster came back a little later in the day she went straight down and sat on the bed to look at them again for several minutes.

Yesterday S and I went into town to repair the tire, pick up a few groceries, and do some other errands. I ran into a lady who always tells me how she recalls catching rides home from the city with Mom and Dad when they were brand new parents, and that she strongly remembers how tenderly and with what care Mom, so young herself, looked after this tiny infant, me. This little story is one that I thought of after Mom died, because it struck me that I had the opportunity to return her tender and devoted care in some similarly fundamental ways ... helping her wash and dress, covering her up to keep warm, bringing her food, giving her medication, supporting her to walk, even entertaining her at times. It was as if some sort of circle had been closed, or completed, between us. She helped me into this life, and I helped her out of it.

It was while telling the lady this that I almost lost my composure there in the store, after she’d remarked how sorry she was and what a sweetheart Mom had been. It’s true that, as Karen and Reta have told me, it is when one has something to say that the tears well up. Not that I mind talking about Mom. No, never. I like nothing better.

A friend has commented that I write about what I am doing but not what I am feeling. I tell people, when they ask, that I am doing quite well. And I am. It does seem as if my emotional turmoil was more to do with anxiety about Mom suffering, than about eventually being without her. Until this past year, when we certainly made up for it, I didn’t spend a lot of time with Mom, so not seeing her for fairly long periods will not be that unusual. We were never constant companions.

I am walking around in a disbelieving way, mind you, as if she can’t really be gone for good. It's almost as if it's too great a change to grasp. Mom's memorial in our home town is Thursday afternoon; perhaps talking to so many people who knew her will make her absence more real.

And goodness, what to wear?

...

email:

 
~ with only the quail and their babes for company ~

Friday 24 June 2005
4:15 p.m.

My babies are gone, out the door sharply at 5:30 a.m. after a quick breakfast of cold pizza. They should be arriving in Edmonton right about now so I expect a phone call any minute.

The last of my errand-running is almost done. Just walked back in the door after hitting the women's shelter dropoff, the post office to mail several packages I've been filling over the months, and the library for talking books to enliven my journey.

I brought home The Time Traveller's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger, Margaret Atwood's Oryx and Crake, Carlos Castenada's The Active Side of Infinity, and In the House of the Riddle Mother by Clarissa Pinkola Estés.

Diana, I wonder if this is the one you were thinking of when in our correspondence you mentioned the latter author. This set of tapes covers "common archetypal motifs in women's dreams." Here's some of what the jacket says: "A dream is like a riddle, Dr. Estés teaches. Once solved, it can provide a surprising answer to an unresolved question buried within the psyche...Based on 20 years of research in the field of Jungian psychology, this session is a dense, poetic storehouse of information about women, their dreams, and their destinies."

Maybe now I'll start looking forward to the long road home.

email:

Thursday 23 June 2005
8:53 p.m.

Okay, NOW I am starting to worry. All this has to go into the van, along with my closetful of clothes and my office, including computer system. And more.

Can it be done?
No I am not taking the table.

No time to sit here jabbering. I've had my five minutes of rest. Back at it I go. I'll leave you with the following, taken on Emil's 17th birthday:

   
~ Emil would never leave this swing, except for food ~

~ hours of entertainment; Everett insect hunting ~

Wednesday 22 June 2005

Perhaps. These are all mine. There are also two pairs of house slippers, and two pairs of Mom's shoes that I "might" wear some day, in the closet. You don't want to know what boots and shoes I've already sent home with Scott, or how many pairs are tucked away on the floor of our bedroom closet there.

It's one of those things about me that the poor lad just doesn't "get," and he probably never will. Ladies, you know what I'm talking about.

Monday 20 June 2005

The kitchen is in a disarray of packing preparation. My dishes have been separated from the owner's dishes so that she can easily choose what she is keeping and pack the rest up. Mine are to be given away; I may put out a box of Free Stuff at an acquaintance's garage sale on Saturday.

Emil and Everett have not been put to work much yet; their last day of school is today and after tomorrow, when we celebrate Emil's 17th birthday, we'll get our noses to the grindstone.

This little fella is a project Emil did in his shop class; he brought it home on Friday and Everett has been playing with it constantly. It balances anywhere ...

One of Emil's favourite pasttimes is sitting on his bed, listening to his CD player. He's into the Beatles, Neil Young, and Valdy these days. I found a very old Valdy LP at a garage sale this weekend; thought that might please Emil.

Everett goes around singing Dennis Lakusta's songs. And once in a while, he picks up the camera and bops around the house, as he did yesterday.

This is the one plant that I am taking back with me to the farm, even if I have to hold it on my lap all the way there. I have a fondness for this little rubber tree and as it grows over the years will remember the time living in Kelowna, and spent with Mom. It was for sale one day for $2 at the grocery store near her place, and I could not resist it.
 

Sunday 19 June 2005
2:10 p.m.

We have had several days of clouds and rain, and now the sun has taken over and brought some moist heat. The air is sweet with fragrant roses.

Since yesterday I have been pulling things out of cupboards, placing things into boxes and bags, and getting organized for the trek through the Rocky Mountains, across Alberta, and home. Karen and I will be travelling in a caravan of two in case either of us has any vehicle trouble.

The boys leave Friday with Dad. He is off to Edmonton to visit Cameron and is not afraid to take them along on a long day's drive. Not that there's any need to be concerned. They are the best travelling children ever; they deserve a prize.

Joan and Karen are celebrating Father's Day with Dad by taking him golfing. Afterward we are having supper at Joan's. I've sent over two hunks of dead animal to roast: a chicken and some beef. My lazy contribution to the meal.

Saturday 18 June 2005
8:37 a.m.

Next door to the theatre studio in the Rotary Arts Centre are artists' studios. The one I frequented while Everett was in his drama explorations class has handmade beads and jewellery, clothing, and quilts. The hanging above is on the wall outside the shop. Simple; even I could do it.

Mom has been in my dreams for several nights. I am happy to say they were not the kind of dreams where you are overjoyed to see your "dead" relative and then wake up to find it's only a dream and are devastated. No, she is just there, part of it all ... very normal. In one, I noticed I had picked up one of her hand mannerisms and was pleased to be carrying that forward; in another she was being pushed in a wheelchair (as she was at times, in life) and looked dear and sweet, though frail, and I realized another year of life would not have been kind to her; in another, she was admiring bunches of long-stemmed dried roses I'd saved, and wondering what I would do with them.

I immediately think of Mom upon awakening. Not with longing or sorrow, but either remembering something, or wondering where she is and what she is doing. There are moments when the air — or pockets of it — seem charged, as if there is a swirl of light or energy that blinks into my awareness and is gone again. It does not look like Mom; it does not look like anything, and I tell myself I am "seeing things" because I want Mom to make an appearance so that I will know she is all right and not just gone.

Friday 17 June 2005

The morning after Mom died, I took off my watch, rings, bracelets and earrings. They will remain off until 40 days have passed.

Some may wonder, why 40 days? I am not sure that was the length of time the water ritual from the Greek Orthodox church is followed, but it's the number I chose because it reminds me of the biblical story of the flood when, as I see it, God wept for 40 days.