I am from . . .

 

This is Lambie.  This is the toy that slept in bed with me every night of my childhood.  Well loved up, a tiny bit ragged, this was one of my favourite toys.  I also had a lovely teddy bear, real mohair.  I had taken it with me when I left home because I also used to sleep with that.  Someone stole it on one of our moves, so I am glad that I didn't take lambie with me or else he might have also been lost. My mom kept Lambie safe for me all of my life.  I was thrilled when my sister found him the other day.  I knew he was at mom's because I had seen him there and loved him up every time I visited, but I wasn't sure what had happened to him in the past six years. 

Its funny how attached we become to the things of our childhood.  Because I was in a Military family and we moved several times, each move requiring a cull, I don't have a lot that remains of my childhood.  I can't even go and visit my childhood homes because most of them have been closed or pulled down for the sake of progress  . . .  but I have Lambie.  

 

When I was a child I longed to live in a small town . . .  a place like Mayfield or Mayberry . . .  a Leave it to Beaver or Andy Griffith kind of existance.  I longed for roots that went deep into the earth in a place they had always dug in, in a place where generation after generation of my family had dug in.  The closest we came to that was when my father finally got posted to Nova Scotia, which is where I lived from the age of 11 until I left to go out to Winnipeg at the age of 21.  The closest thing to roots that I had.  Where I actually had Cousins and Aunts and a history. 

 

Thinking back this morning however, I have come to realise that roots don't come from places or things  . . .  they come from relationships.  From love ties to those that have been there with you since the beginning . . . ties that can never really be broken . . . 

Roots come from stories handed down through the generations and from looking at faded old photographs of those who came before and remembering those stories.

 

Great Great Uncle Darius and Aunt Janet

 I am from an old hand carved wooden box of the Oregon Trail sitting on a faded and threadbare picture carpet my father brought from Sicily atop our television . . .  from a big box of Tide soap smelling clean and fresh, and cartons of Orange and Apricot flavoured Beep, and glass milk bottles left on the porch.

I am from war time military housing, each one a cookie cutter stamp of the next, but what we called home . . . each one made our own by all the bits and bobs we carried around with us from place to place . . . like a turtle carries his home on his back.

 

 Aunt Freda, holding me, my mom and my Great Grandmother  

on the porch of my grandmother's house just prior

to our moving to Germany.

I am from pine scented forests and clear woodland streams, rolling orchards and misty harbours full of fishing boats . . .  anchored and resting . . .  and rocky mountain meadows full of wild flowers and babbling brooks . . . meandering rivers and rushing torrents . . . fireflies and sheets of light which ripple  through starlit Northern skies at night.

I am from a grandmother's Molasses cookies, warm from the oven, and from always being right, from Nina and Elmer and Henrietta Elizabeth, and all the staid and ordinary folk that came before me. I am from the salt of the earth and hard working hands, hearts that cared and eyes that cried tears made of salt and soul . . .  from bowels filled with the milk of human kindness. 

 

Ida Maria McNayr, my Great Great Grandmother

 I am from pioneer men and strong women who weren‘t afraid to leave all that was familiar and theirs behind . . . crossing oceans to venture into new lands, making new starts built on hopes and dreams of golden futures and new beginnings.

I am from a God who loves even me, with all of my shortcomings and weaknesses. He uses them to make me strong and carries me when I can no longer carry myself and sets my feet upon higher ground, lifting me up to places I never dreamed of going or knew I wanted to go. 

 

Ida McNayr Smith and two of her daughters

I am from the wilds of Glasgow and the loins of Boyd McNayr, from Phillippe and Anne and the cobbled streets of French Aristocrats . . .  from baking powder biscuits, Saturday night baked beans and butter tarts . . .  and Hockey Night in Canada.

 I am from the hearts that were broken and spirits that were mended and stiched back together with the love of family . . .  from am ancient Uncle who fed me humbugs on an old lady’s porch whilst telling me stories of wars in far off lands and shattered dreams put back together . . .  from the patchwork that is a family hewn from scraps and stories and roots that run deep in the soil of small mountain villages looking down on clean valleys.  

  

My Grandfather Woodworth with his four 

sisters and his baby brother

I am from the  boxes of photos that lay in my mother’s home, black and white images of stoic faces and  honest people . . .  with work worn hands, big hearts, twinkling eyes, and stories whispered and legends told,ancient memories of humble folk and sturdy stock. I am their future, their hope, their dreams . . . they live on in me and those who will come after me . . .

That is a family . . .  my family . . . and these are my roots.  

 

This is a photograph of my mother on the right and her older sister Thelma on the left. The clothes are not dirty , they would have been spotless.  My mother had the photo taped into an album with green tape (which she always regretted) and that is tape residue.  Tomorrow will be my first Mother's Day in my life that I won't be able to speak to my mother for real . . . I remember as a child going to church on Mother's Day and everyone wore a flower on their lapel.  A red one if your mother was alive and a white one if she had passed . . . 

It's Mother's day, and everyone

I meet have flowers fair,

Pinned on their coats to show the love

for Mothers, everywhere.

For some are red as summer dawn,

And some are white as snow,

And here along the sunny street,

They make a gallant show.

I bought a posy at the shop,

As sweet as it could be,

I paid the man a silver coin,

Through tears that blinded me.

Along the golden streets up there,

I wonder if she knows,

That on my new spring coat today,

I wear a white, white rose  . . . 

~Edna Jacques 

 

The lilacs will soon be blooming outside my mom's living room front window.  There was a lovely big bush of them right next to the deck.  She loved to sit in her chair next to the window and look at them. Sometimes my sister would bring in a bundle of them to sit in a vase so mom could smell them up close.  We are all missing mom so very much, not just on Mother's Day, but every day.  My father and I were blubbering about her on the telephone yesterday.  We agreed that we were happy that she was whole and no longer in pain, but we also agreed that we miss her so very much and always will.  There is nobody on earth that can take your mother's place.  I love you mom.  I hope that wherever you are you have lilacs to smell and birds to watch and that your laughter trickles across the land and that your blue eyes are twinkling, as you dance once more on toes filled with light. I miss you every minute of every day  . . . always  . . . 

A thought to carry with you  . . . 

° * 。 • ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚ ˛ •
•。★★ 。* 。
° 。 ° ˛˚˛ * _Π_____*。*˚
˚ ˛ •˛•˚ */______/~＼。˚ ˚ ˛
˚ ˛ •˛• ˚ ｜ 田田 ｜門 ★
 *Hello sun in my face,

Hello you who made the morning

and spread it over the fields . . .

Watch now how I start the day,

 in happiness, in kindness.

~Mary Oliver  •。★★ 。* 。 

 

In The English Kitchen today  . . .  Big Bran Breakfast Cookies.  Seriously tasty, and filled with goodness.

Have a wonderful Saturday.  The sun has decided to shine here after two days of solid rain.  No matter what you get up to, don't forget! 

 

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And I do too!