The Long Road of Memories

Me, Cynthia, Liza, and Kim: June 1988

Almost 30 years. That's how long we've known each other. Of whom do I speak? Well, I'll tell you.

 In September 1987 I started grade nine. We had just moved to Ottawa, I didn't know a soul, and my new school had close to 2000 kids. My grade nine class alone, had close to 900 kids; more kids than were at the junior high school I'd left behind in Victoria.

I floundered through my first day in a sweaty haze, never quite shedding the embarrassment of having my book bag on the lap of a  boy I didn't know for the bus ride to school. ( My bus was crazy full. 3 kids per seat, and those of us at the last stop, in the aisle. My bag had no choice but to cozy up to a stranger.)

I remember sitting on the front step of the school at lunch time, not being able to eat  because of the ever tightening knot in my stomach and wishing I was anywhere but there. Most of the kids had at least had tour of the school before they'd started, knew at least one other person, but I was hopelessly alone and often that day, completely figuratively and literally,  lost. It would have gone down as one of my worst days if it hadn't been for Liza.

After school both she and I stood outside the entrance closest to the office. She looked nice, and like me, lost. We started chatting, wondering out loud really, where on earth we went to catch the buses home. Through a series of quick questions, I discovered that like me, she was new to Ottawa and knew no one. I immediately clung to her like a life raft and desperate not to have my second day be like my first, asked her if we could hang out the next day.

As we made our way to where we thought the school buses might be, we saw Cynthia. She was in striped pink top and leaning on a wall. Liza introduced us. She and Cynthia were both a year older than me and had met in few classes earlier that day. Like Liza and I, Cynthia was new and knew no one.

We three then walked until we found the buses and that's where Liza introduced me to Kim. She was in grade nine, like me, but not new. However, she and Liza were on the same bus and became fast friends and often during my grade nine year, she would hang around with Liza, Cynthia, and I.  Come the next year, Cynthia and Liza moved, and Kim and I started to hang out on a regular basis.

So, why am I telling you this? Well the reason I'm sharing this tale is because high school is crazy. Friends come, friends go, friends become enemies one minute, best friends the next. I've stayed in touch with a few people from high school days and these three girls, the first people I became friends with on my first day of school almost 30 years ago are still in my life. They are still my friends.

Liza, I've not seen since 1990 and we had a gap of many years where we weren't in touch, but when I reconnected with her through social media 10 years ago, anyone listening to our long overdue phone conversation would never know it had been at least 10 years since we'd spoken.

Cynthia and I see each other every couple years. Her wonderful and talented daughter Kylah is my Goddaughter. When Cyn and I meet up, we fall right back into our friendship as if we lived next door to each other.

Kim is a world traveler. She comes back to Canada every few years but mostly lives abroad and travels more than anyone I know. She stays in touch though. Christmas cards and emails, visits here and there, including an amazing meet up in London, UK last fall.

And tomorrow, the two of us are going on a road trip. Kim is flying in from Ottawa and we are heading to PEI. Ever since she was very young, Kim has been an Anne of Green Gables fan. Red headed and spirited like Anne, Kim read all the books, collected souvenirs , and has an autographed picture from Megan Fallows, the actress who portrayed Anne in the mini series from the late 1980's, BUT she has never been to PEI. I've said to Kim, "I have picture in my hallway of you with a camel, standing in a desert in India. I can't believe you've never been to PEI."

To commemorate this occasion, to celebrate our friendship, I'm calling this the, "We've known each other for almost 30 years East Coast road trip." I'm beyond excited to share with my lovely friend the joys of the east coast, to be witness to watching her see places she's never seen, just as she watched me meet London and what in had to offer last October. It will be a week making memories with someone who has already been a part of so much of my life and I couldn't be happier.

And Liza and Cynthia? You're coming too.

Who's ready for a road trip??

Kim Fletcher, your Birthday Blog Post is Ready!

   Just over a week ago I had a nice, long, catch up chat with my good friend Kim. It had been a substantial amount of time since we'd talked, but like I knew it would be, it was fine; exactly as if we'd never skipped a day without talking to each other. It's a comfort, a constant, and I never take that kind of connection for granted.

   In the middle of our call Kim said, "I graduated from high school 25 years ago today." I responded with, "Wow, you're right. That means 25 years ago at this time I was traveling back to Victoria with my family." Kim then said, "That means that we've been friends for almost 25 years."

   When I moved back to Victoria after living in Ottawa for 4 years everything had changed. My friends had grown up, some of my friends had grown apart, and many of my friends had grown away from me. I was adrift in sea of awkward circumstance that honestly, I had never considered would be a possibility. I had assumed that everyone would be so excited to see me! That people I'd known since I was 5 and professed to have missed me in the letters I'd received over the 4 years would be happy I was back.

   This was not the case. They were pleased to see me at first, but then, they weren't. No one was mean, no one was cruel. We just didn't fit anymore and it was with a very heavy heart that I began the second chapter of my life in my home town. Everyone had made plans for their future, but I wasn't in them.

   Everyone that is except for Wendy. We'd stayed close during my stint in the nation's capital and while I was a bit chocked when I found out she was going to go to Simon Fraser University in Burnaby instead of going to University of Victoria with me, our friendship remained intact. And before she headed across the Juan de Fuca straight she gave me a great gift: Kim.

   Kim and Wendy had become close friends in high school. Before I moved back to Victoria I'd heard about her from Wendy. I was a bit, not going to lie, jealous of this Kim as she'd been the special friend who'd got to experience the ups and downs of high school with Wendy while I only got to hear about it letters and late night phone calls.

There's  lot of hair in this picture...

   However, when I finally met this Kim at the movies (Beauty and the Beast) in August, a couple weeks before University started, all my jealousy melted. I liked her immediately. She was fun, smart, and kind. Plus she laughed at my stupid jokes, which is always a good path to my heart. I hoped that we would be friends, but wasn't sure if we'd meet up and figured our paths would only cross when Wendy came home from university on holidays.

   The first day of University was nerve wracking to say the least. I was scared and nervous about my future. When I hopped on the city bus to the big school, I thought was going to be sick. But then I saw a familiar face: Kim. She was sitting alone, looking a little anxious and invited me to sit with her. For the entire bus ride to UVic, I talked her ear off. I don’t remember what I talked about. I just remember being so happy that I wasn't experiencing my first day alone and I a strong feeling that we were going to become good friends.

   And we did. By the time Wendy came home for Thanksgiving, we were inseparable and anyone would think Kim and I had known each other for years. Many Friday nights, I would be found watching taped videos off of Much Music at Kim's place. I don't know how many times we watched those World on Edge, or Bryan Adams, or Roxette videos, but they never got old. We bonded over them and movies like The Shawshank Redemption and Gleaming the Cube. (Kim worked at video store. It rocked!

Oh my...how we swooned.

   After our first year at UVic, we both decided it wasn't for us and for the next while, we kind of lived parallel lives. We both took a year off, we both moved to Ontario a year later, we both went to college in Ontario where we both met Ottawa boys whose fathers worked for Bell Canada and knew each other. (The fathers knew each other, not our boys).

   Both of us married our Ottawa boys and settled in B.C. At first Kim was in Victoria and I was in New Westminster, but not long after, she was there too and moved to apartment not very far away. We both got pregnant in 2001 and had daughters only 6 and half months apart.

   However, it wasn't in the cards for our paths to continue running side by side-ish. In 2006, my family and I took the plunge and moved across the country to Miramichi where my husband had found a job in his field of animation. As Kim and I hugged goodbye and wiped away tears, I felt the 15 years of friendship and memories fill my heart to the breaking point. She had been with me through so many tough times, happy experiences, embarrassing scenarios that I'd care to not remember, and here she was again. Supporting me and helping me to embrace a future that was as uncertain and scary as it had been that day I'd seen her on the bus to UVic.

Kim and I in Ottawa, July 2014

  The last 10 years have gone by in the blink of an eye. Our kids have grown, we've suffered losses, celebrated gains and while we haven't experienced these things together, they haven't created a distance between us. We have grown up, but not grown apart and I think in 25 years one of us will say to the other, "We've known each other for almost 50 years."

   Kim, this one is for you.

So...the thing is...the play?

The play, Hamlet; it's what got us to London.

I've thought of that sentence many times over the last few weeks, but not what would come after it. My intention upon returning from our two week trip to London was to write, write, write. Not just about our trip, but new stories inspired by what I saw and what I experienced. I was so sure the desire to get down on paper, or screen, every detail of our trip would be present because I would want to remember everything, right? I would feel new, fresh and creative once again, right?

But that hasn't happened. We've been home for over two months and I've written one completely unexpected blog post about one moment of our trip. For the most part the words have not wanted to leap out of me like some sort of crazed beast. Instead they've stayed trapped behind a wall of routine. I often grab a notebook and a favourite pen, hold it too tight and stare at the blank page, but try as I might, the words don't come. The will to write fades and is quickly replaced with an achy sleepiness that is unfortunately becoming a state where I live out most of my days.

There is so much I could say about London but honestly a lot of our trip is still the "feelings", many things done and seen are still locked in a place of emotional experience not ready for words. And what tales I could put into words, I just can't find the energy to write it all down.

This is sad. This is frustrating. This is not me. Over the last few years I've taken to writing much like I've always taken to acting. It became a part of me. It kept me going. I needed to write. And now…it's slipping away.

It is a painful for me to acknowledge, as obvious as it is, that over the last year my creative writing has come to almost a standstill. London aside, there's a lot I would like to say, but I just can't. Like exactly why I'm very angry, often. This anger that I can feel living inside me, eating away on my nerves and sense of reason. Yes, this anger, I'm so very tired of it. It's like a poison. It's suffocating and it's hard to breath creativity into life when are gasping.

There is a lot I need to let go of, I just wish I knew how.

Or rather, that I had the courage to let go.

Because you see, the play, it was the most amazing thing and one day, I hope to be able to tell you why.

London Called: Remembrance Day

    London remembers the wars. Everywhere you go, the streets of London remind you that the city was once victim to the wrath of war and evil. Monuments, scarred buildings, plaques, statues, these reminders not only mark the punishment the city took for standing up to those who thought they knew better, they also tell the world that no matter what you throw at London, she will rise above it. It takes a lot of strength to stand up to the bully and when you do, the fall out is often negative, but it's a price worth paying if you're going to remain true to yourself. London, like many cities, did this and the reward was to remain standing.

I was moved by all markings of wars in London. I too had family who served and lived through World War II. I too had family who served and died in the same war. My family is much smaller than some because of that war, uncles never known to my mother, gave their lives for their country. I knew a woman who proudly served in the WRAF and was in London during the Blitz. She would tell me the stories without fear, a slight smile playing on her lips. Perhaps time enough had passed to take the edge off the horror it must have been to live through. Or maybe, during that time, she blocked out the fear, stood fast, took shelter, and waited it out in a stoic, calm manner of the English people around her. I will never know because I knew her at time when my own life experience wouldn't have drawn the questions from me. I assumed she had been scarred, because who wouldn’t have been, but now I've a feeling it was something else. An emotion generated in war that there is no word for, but a word only people who have served in war know.

  One of our days in London took us to St. Paul's Cathedral. I could try to describe its beauty, its splendor, its majesty to you, but it would only paint a rough picture of what is it really like. It's a place that needs to be felt first and then seen and I've not the words or skill to describe it. A lot of its wonder blended into a sense of awe with a few specifics rising out of that feeling.

  To the left of the Dome, there are two corridors that lead to the North Transept. Going down the further one, leads you to a stunning painting, The Light of the World, by William Holman Hunt. There are chairs for you to sit and contemplate the painting, and find your own meaning. Selfishly, as I had been in the musical Godspell only months before, the song of the same name as the painting immediately popped in my head. However, the memory was pleasant and when I connected it with the painting, it gave the production I'd been in more meaning. Not a bad thing.

   I then moved on and walked to the first corridor and after I turned the corner I came face to face with a

most beautiful alter cloth. Encased in glass, this "art from war", as described on the St. Paul's Cathedral website, was created by over a 130 injured soldiers recovering in hospitals all over the country during The Great War. Soldiers from the UK, Australia, Canada, New Zealand, and South Africa were encouraged to contribute to the High Alter tapestry as part of their recovery process. The display says that, "Embroidery was a classic device for the rehabilitation of soldiers during WWI, because this intricate close work greatly helped to reduce the effects of shell shock".

   It is an exquisite piece of artwork and to know that it was created by men who had faced horrors that most of us will never know gives it a deep, almost holy beauty. While living with great pain, coming to terms with their forever emotion and physical afflictions, mourning the loss of fellow soldiers, and missing their home and families, they added colour and magic to the world. Their time in the trenches and the front lines, all the suffering they witnessed and lived through did not take away the ability it rise above it all and make art from war.

   It gave me pause; it brings tears to my eyes when I think about it. I've been very lucky in my life but I've had sufferings, and yes, they have been on smaller scale, but they are my sufferings. While going through a rough patch this past summer, and wondering if I'd done the right thing by speaking my mind, my husband, frustrated but supportive said, that when you stand up for yourself, you have to be prepared to deal with the consequences. He said London stood up to Hitler and paid a heavy price for doing so, but it had to be done. He was in no way comparing my issues to the Blitz, but the parallel of not backing down was clear.

   Our lives are precious and fleeting and we can waste so much time wishing they were something else and not appreciating what we have. However, days like Remembrance Day should remind us that a lot of what we have is because of the men and women who have served our country. And like these brave souls, and in particular like London and the alter cloth, we can all find a way to rise above our pain, our sufferings, and give the world something beautiful.

First Day

There is a story that I cannot tell without crying. It doesn’t matter where I am, or who I’m telling it to, my throat tightens, my eyes tear up, and I cry.  It is the story of my daughter’s first day of school.

She was only 4 when she started school. We’d had the option, because her birthday is in late October, to hold her back a year. But she was ready for school and had been since she was 3. Holding her back was not an option. She was eager for her beginning and we were happy to share our child with the world.

September 7, 2006

We took first day of school picture. Her big smile looked perfect with her pig tails, new sweater and skirt set from her great aunt, and brand new back pack. Both Sean and I walked her to the bus stop, but it was I who took the first day of school ride with her while he followed us to the school in our car. Immediately, the smell of the bus, the feel of the seats took me straight back to all my bus trips, but it was new for our daughter and I thought she might be scared. However, Sorcha’s smile continued as she scanned the bus, the kids, the scenery out the window with no trace of the nervousness many other children around her showed in their hunched shoulders and shy eyes.

Sean met us at the school door and together we walked our skipping girl to her kindergarten room. We’d met her teacher the week before, and she greeted us with familiar kindness while she showed Sorcha her to her seat. Other names, Kale, Mikale, and Jack had been placed at the same table. Sean and I shared a smile not even needing to express our amusement that Sorcha, on her first day at school, would be sitting with all boys.

As we said goodbyes to Sorcha, who was already deeply involved in a Pooh Bear colouring page, her teacher handed us a Ziploc bag with a few items inside that we examined later. We drove away from the school, a mix of emotions swirling in our hearts, one of them being pride. Our little girl was on her way, starting a path that we would guide her on, but one that would ultimately lead to a place she wanted end up.

Last week, I talked about this day to a co-worker whose little girl is staring kindergarten today. I said,

“In the bag were three items: one herbal tea, a cotton ball, and a note. The note said that the tea was to drink as you thought about your child on their first day of school and the cotton ball was to hold as you drank your tea and to remember the softness of the hand of your child as you led them to their first day of school. ” I paused to wipe my eyes, “And that was 9 years ago and it’s gone like that.” A snap of my fingers didn’t really do justice to how fast the time has passed, but it’s all I had.

Today is Sorcha’s first day of grade 9. The back pack is bigger than her first one, the clothes are her own

September 8, 20015

style and choosing, and her hair has purple streaks without the pigtails. She only has 4 years of required schooling to go and while the path is not terribly clear, we’re still proud of her. No, she doesn’t skip to school anymore, and she’s often more nervous and anxious than happy, but she’s her own person, with her own goals. She’s got passion, creativity, and a brain that will take her far.

And maybe that’s why I can’t tell the story without crying because it has gone so fast. I can remember that first day, that cup of tea that I drank on a bench down by the river, and the softness of her 4 year old hand in mine as if it was yesterday. It was a precious moment, letting her go, being proud of her, not spoiling her happiness with our tears. She took that moment, let go of our hands, and embraced her future. That moment in the past created a time loop, a point of such breathtaking beauty that I will happily live it out every time I tell the story and every first day that we share together.

Even though it makes me cry.

Cin