One Stone
One stone gently tossed
into a stream is lost.
Many, heaved with force,
can make a stream change course.
One voice barely heard -
wind swallows every word.
But when voices blend,
the silent air we rend.
I think I'm alone -
one solitary stone.
One small, timid voice
with no cause to rejoice.
But I am so wrong -
full choirs sing my song!
And a stream is stopped
when many stones are dropped.
by Sharon Flood Kasenberg, February 19, 2018
I wrote this poem in February for a friend who was planning to stage a protest. I couldn't physically be with him to support a cause we both believe in, but I could send him a poem. He read it to some who had gathered with him, and so, although not present myself, I played a small part in his efforts.
Now - while that same friend stages a hunger strike - I've been waging a war on the weeds in downtown Atwood.
My husband has been meeting a lot of people since he decided to run for municipal office. One of the people he met noted that Todd was married to "an activist", mentioning my "Weeding Wednesdays".
At this point I need to mention that in spite of this post containing a poem about stones and discussing weeds, it isn't a commentary on the legalization of the other kind of weed. (Frankly, that isn't my thing at all. My imagination needs no assistance, and I get the munchies far too often already!)
My frustration with the weeds along my town's main drag started as soon as we'd moved here. As I recall, I'd spent a morning pulling gargantuan thistles out of my lawn and garden beds, and decided to take a break by running to the post office to see if our mail had caught up with us yet. And on my short walk, I noted towering weeds on Main St - a.k.a the highway that runs straight through town - and I thought, "Why doesn't somebody pull these weeds?"
When we'd lived here for almost a year, our town did its big Canada 150 celebration. The worst of the weeds got whacked - but they grew back taller than ever. This year, the Canada Day parade went past a few mighty impressive specimens, and on the way to view said parade with a friend, I said, "I swear one day I'm going to come out here and dig up these weeds!"
And so I did. I'd been itching to pull those weeds for almost two years, but I'd been afraid to. Then my husband decided to run for mayor, and I figured that if he was brave enough to run for office - in spite of critics and naysayers - then I could be brave enough to not care if people thought I looked like a nutter pulling weeds along the main drag!
I put out a call for helpers on Facebook, and a few ladies got out to help me pull weeds. Nobody laughed at us - in fact, a whole lot of people complimented us for taking the time to do something for the town. The next week was more of the same. The third week my previous helpers were all tied up helping elsewhere, and so I went out and finished the first (and worst) block on my own. I could've allowed myself to feel really discouraged, but I didn't. "Weeding Wednesday" never took off to the extent that I'd hoped; I'd envisioned a team of volunteers working efficiently for an hour and then maybe doing lunch at the diner...and instead had two helpers both times, and worked three hours... However, a few really encouraging things had happened along the way:
1) People were encouraging and appreciative. They thanked us for our efforts. One woman came and brought us cold water bottles.
2) The town heard what we were up to and came out with a weed whacker to cut down the worst of the weeds. A few of the property owners got out and sprayed their weeds. We had initiated a movement of sorts!
3) I learned that I really would rather be pulling the weeds than walking by them and complaining about them. I have time to pull them, and it feels good to be actively doing something to beautify a wonderful community that could use a little spiffing up.
Am I an "activist"? That's a tough question. According to the dictionary, an activist is "a person who campaigns to bring about political or social change." I didn't really campaign, and I've yet to see if any change - political or social - has occurred as a result of my efforts. All I know is that (weather permitting) I'll be the somebody who continues to pull weeds downtown on Wednesday mornings, and I'll keep holding out hope that a few others will join me in the effort. It isn't much, but it's a contribution I can make.
Consider rocks and streams for a moment. When my boys were young, they loved nothing more than tossing rocks into bodies of water. They might have loved that satisfying thunk, or maybe it was a simple way of asserting power over the world around them - "You - rock - shall now dwell in this pond!" When they got older, they tried to skip stones in the lake when we visited the family cottage. (Grandma had to coach them - I can't skip stones to save my soul.) But like my sons, I like the sound of a stone hitting the water. I like seeing the ripples one stone makes as it sinks into the depths.
When I was young, there was a stream at the edge of the lot that our cabin sat on. That stream was the bane of my father's existence - and every spring he hauled stones to divert its course so that it wouldn't erode our much coveted stretch of sandy beach. As a result, the stream was a minor inconvenience to us. If it was too wide to step over, we'd merely plunk in a few strategically placed large stones and cross without getting our feet wet.
My husband is dropping the big rocks to ford a stream. My friend (the protester) is hauling stones to divert a stream. I'm not situated to do either of those things - and activist seems like too much of a stretch to describe what I'm attempting.
For now, I'll settle for making ripples.
Friday, 3 August 2018
Thursday, 19 July 2018
At Sea - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
At Sea
I was a sailor
in need of a sea -
hoping to set sail;
go searching for me.
Here in this small town
new port I have found -
and now I'm happy
to stay on the ground.
On terra firma
I'm learning a lot.
I'm finding much more than
the me that I sought.
Observing the goodness
in those around me
has helped me to lose
inhibitions - be free!
Not battling the waves
I feel suddenly strong;
No longer at sea -
I am found - I belong.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, July 18, 2018
It's been almost two years since we made our big move to a small town. We didn't know what to expect here, so we held our noses and belly-flopped into unknown waters. Our early days often felt more like sink than swim. We were thrust back into small town life after thirteen years of being city folk, and we were trying to figure things out - like how to renovate a huge old house, stay financially afloat, acclimatize ourselves to a new environment, and make new friends. It was daunting, but the kindness of strangers helped us through all the changes and challenges.
I came here with a whole lot of emotional baggage that I thought the people who befriended me could never understand, but as people listened kindly and shared their own stories I was reminded that I don't have a monopoly on disillusionment, disappointment or confusion.
When I came here, I was going through an identity crisis - trying to figure out what I wanted from this new chapter of my life, and desperately hoping I could begin to feel a sense of belonging here. (Trust me - there were times when I felt that I couldn't have looked any odder if I'd been a crazy cat lady running around town advocating wearing metal helmets to keep space aliens from reading brainwaves.) There don't seem to be a lot of rhyming poet/bloggers in these parts...just how much of an oddball was I?
Gradually we became involved in a few things. My husband and I joined a Toastmasters group a few miles down the road, and discovered an amazing group of friendly, supportive people. We've found wonderful friends among this varied group, and enough confidence to speak our minds. A few small victories came my way while finding my voice as a speaker, and I've learned that sometimes I can surprise myself. (If I can play a half-way convincing Madam in front of an audience of a hundred, or don a tin-foil hat and pet a ceramic cat while addressing a room full of people - what more can I do?) Toastmasters has certainly helped me reconnect with my inner imp!
Last fall I joined the book club at our local library branch, and got to know some really lovely ladies. I might be the naysayer in the group - the outlier who loved the one book the rest hated and criticized the book they all loved - but they put up with me. Through our friendly discussions over tea and snacks, we've all discovered commonalities.
In the last year and a half my husband and I have gone to more funerals and visitations than we did in the previous decade. (I can deny that it helps that the funeral home is in sight from most of our windows.) We've experienced so much kindness and generosity here that we want our neighbours to know that we're thinking of them, and want to do what we can during difficult times.
Most of the people I've met here are kind, generous and hard-working. How many other places can you put out a call for someone to remove twenty bags of lawn waste and get three different offers in the space of a few hours? People are committed to being neighbourly here - they'll help you move furniture on a moment's notice, tell you where to find bargains, and recommend people for jobs you need done.
One day at the hardware store, my husband asked about how to fix something, only to have the store manager say he had one of those he never used - and the next day there it was at our back door!
When you are the recipient of that kind of generosity and kindness, you want to give back in whatever way you can.
Helping here isn't always as easy as making a casserole on your own time and dropping it at the door. It might mean giving hours of your time and going home with sore muscles. I've seen mountains moved here - mountains of yard waste, garbage and recycling - all moved by people who care enough to dig in and help each other. I've seen people literally pull together - bags full of weeds from an elderly neighbour's lawn - working tirelessly to get the job done.
I've learned that you start belonging the day you're asked to help out.
The people in my neighbourhood consistently set good examples of being service-oriented, and they make me want to be a more helpful person too. They're helping me find my best self. I might not ever be a "typical" small town housewife, but I've come to the conclusion that most people here are okay with my peculiarities. There's room here for a weirdo like me, a religion-less refugee from big city anonymity. As I try to repay kindness with plates of baking and return favours, I find myself less confused about what I have to offer, and ever more optimistic about the state of humanity.
Kindness begets kindness and acceptance begets acceptance. I can belong just because I want to.
In her book, The Gifts of Imperfection, Brene Brown writes, "True belonging only happens when we present our authentic, imperfect selves to the world, our sense of belonging can never be greater than our level of self acceptance."
The mysteries of my life are unraveling as I continue to find ways to knit myself into this community. I feel better about the direction I'm moving in than ever before. There are still conundrums to work out, but they don't seem to occupy as much of my head space now that I'm more engaged with good causes and great people.
Do I belong here because I've been accepted, or have I found my port because I've finally begun to accept myself?
All I know for certain is that I'm no longer at sea.
I was a sailor
in need of a sea -
hoping to set sail;
go searching for me.
Here in this small town
new port I have found -
and now I'm happy
to stay on the ground.
On terra firma
I'm learning a lot.
I'm finding much more than
the me that I sought.
Observing the goodness
in those around me
has helped me to lose
inhibitions - be free!
Not battling the waves
I feel suddenly strong;
No longer at sea -
I am found - I belong.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, July 18, 2018
It's been almost two years since we made our big move to a small town. We didn't know what to expect here, so we held our noses and belly-flopped into unknown waters. Our early days often felt more like sink than swim. We were thrust back into small town life after thirteen years of being city folk, and we were trying to figure things out - like how to renovate a huge old house, stay financially afloat, acclimatize ourselves to a new environment, and make new friends. It was daunting, but the kindness of strangers helped us through all the changes and challenges.
I came here with a whole lot of emotional baggage that I thought the people who befriended me could never understand, but as people listened kindly and shared their own stories I was reminded that I don't have a monopoly on disillusionment, disappointment or confusion.
When I came here, I was going through an identity crisis - trying to figure out what I wanted from this new chapter of my life, and desperately hoping I could begin to feel a sense of belonging here. (Trust me - there were times when I felt that I couldn't have looked any odder if I'd been a crazy cat lady running around town advocating wearing metal helmets to keep space aliens from reading brainwaves.) There don't seem to be a lot of rhyming poet/bloggers in these parts...just how much of an oddball was I?
Gradually we became involved in a few things. My husband and I joined a Toastmasters group a few miles down the road, and discovered an amazing group of friendly, supportive people. We've found wonderful friends among this varied group, and enough confidence to speak our minds. A few small victories came my way while finding my voice as a speaker, and I've learned that sometimes I can surprise myself. (If I can play a half-way convincing Madam in front of an audience of a hundred, or don a tin-foil hat and pet a ceramic cat while addressing a room full of people - what more can I do?) Toastmasters has certainly helped me reconnect with my inner imp!
Last fall I joined the book club at our local library branch, and got to know some really lovely ladies. I might be the naysayer in the group - the outlier who loved the one book the rest hated and criticized the book they all loved - but they put up with me. Through our friendly discussions over tea and snacks, we've all discovered commonalities.
In the last year and a half my husband and I have gone to more funerals and visitations than we did in the previous decade. (I can deny that it helps that the funeral home is in sight from most of our windows.) We've experienced so much kindness and generosity here that we want our neighbours to know that we're thinking of them, and want to do what we can during difficult times.
Most of the people I've met here are kind, generous and hard-working. How many other places can you put out a call for someone to remove twenty bags of lawn waste and get three different offers in the space of a few hours? People are committed to being neighbourly here - they'll help you move furniture on a moment's notice, tell you where to find bargains, and recommend people for jobs you need done.
One day at the hardware store, my husband asked about how to fix something, only to have the store manager say he had one of those he never used - and the next day there it was at our back door!
When you are the recipient of that kind of generosity and kindness, you want to give back in whatever way you can.
Helping here isn't always as easy as making a casserole on your own time and dropping it at the door. It might mean giving hours of your time and going home with sore muscles. I've seen mountains moved here - mountains of yard waste, garbage and recycling - all moved by people who care enough to dig in and help each other. I've seen people literally pull together - bags full of weeds from an elderly neighbour's lawn - working tirelessly to get the job done.
I've learned that you start belonging the day you're asked to help out.
The people in my neighbourhood consistently set good examples of being service-oriented, and they make me want to be a more helpful person too. They're helping me find my best self. I might not ever be a "typical" small town housewife, but I've come to the conclusion that most people here are okay with my peculiarities. There's room here for a weirdo like me, a religion-less refugee from big city anonymity. As I try to repay kindness with plates of baking and return favours, I find myself less confused about what I have to offer, and ever more optimistic about the state of humanity.
Kindness begets kindness and acceptance begets acceptance. I can belong just because I want to.
In her book, The Gifts of Imperfection, Brene Brown writes, "True belonging only happens when we present our authentic, imperfect selves to the world, our sense of belonging can never be greater than our level of self acceptance."
The mysteries of my life are unraveling as I continue to find ways to knit myself into this community. I feel better about the direction I'm moving in than ever before. There are still conundrums to work out, but they don't seem to occupy as much of my head space now that I'm more engaged with good causes and great people.
Do I belong here because I've been accepted, or have I found my port because I've finally begun to accept myself?
All I know for certain is that I'm no longer at sea.
Thursday, 5 July 2018
Heat! By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Heat
Beneath the sun's relentless rays
my thoughts are turning foggy -
this torrid heat's gone on for days
and even nights are soggy.
Steam rises from the city streets
that are almost deserted;
the shortest walk my strength defeats -
I'm overly exerted.
I'm swimming in humidity -
my body saturated -
while heat zaps my lucidity
and leaves me agitated.
I've never felt such gratitude
for air-conditioned shelter;
no comfort even for the nude -
outdoors it's like a smelter.
I feel no urge to cook or bake,
my appetite is waning,
but as I strive my thirst to slake
such water weight I'm gaining!
The grass threatens to blow away,
the flowers wilt, dejected.
I hope this heat's not here to stay -
this needs to be corrected.
I know some love this summer heat
and baking in the hot sun,
but my baked brain admits defeat
and wants the heat to be done!
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, August 2006
Yikes! It's been hot out there! Hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk, or to burn your knee on the surface of a flatbed truck. (Which happened to a friend on Sunday.) Yup - there's no denying that it's been hot.
I guess last time I felt bothered enough by the heat to write about it was in the summer of 2006. I was working in a very tiny (but blessedly air-conditioned) health food store a fifteen minute walk from my where I lived. Those walks to and from work seemed crazily long, and I'd arrive at work, or back at home, feeling like a badly wrung out (and nasty smelling!) dish cloth. The store was located in one of those little neighbourhood plazas that rely heavily on foot traffic, and those hot summer days were eerily quiet. I spent a lot of time trying to write poems - which were often less than stellar. (This one was pretty bad, so I edited extensively.) My mind doesn't function well in heat, and when you add a liberal dose of menopause into the mix of that era, you can imagine how my poor brain felt like it was being boiled in the sweat of my misery.
Some people love heat. They bask in it like lizards sunning on rocks. I marvel that they don't actually melt into gelatinous goo.
"Is it still nice out?" asked a server in the sub shop a few days back. We'd gone in to grab a few sandwiches rather than warming up the kitchen by turning on the oven to cook. I tried to think back to the last day I'd considered "nice." Was it last Tuesday or Wednesday? My heat addled memory was uncertain. For at least a week I've been giving my plants extra water, staying indoors most of the day, and taking walks in the evening when the sun isn't quite as hot. You know it's bad when you step outside at 8:00 pm and still feel like you're walking into a convection oven.
Every morning I check the weather to see extreme heat warnings. When will it end? If this isn't global warming, what is?
Some people try to trivialize the heat in their area.
"It's a dry heat", folks in Arizona will tell you. "So much easier to bear than where it's humid!"
I'm sorry, but when you start talking about extremely hot weather it's terrible whether it's dry or humid. Whether I get boiled or fried, I'll still get cooked!
I get no sympathy when I gripe about the heat.
"It's better than the cold!" people tell me emphatically.
I disagree. In the winter I can add layers of clothing, but in summer there's only so much I'm willing to take off.
I've never loved heat. As a child growing up in Northern Ontario it wasn't that much of an issue, thankfully. Our house wasn't air-conditioned, and I slept upstairs. On those nights when it was uncomfortable in our room, my sister and I would relocate to a folding bed in the basement rec room. It was rustic, but bearable. On the hottest days, my father might pull out the sprinkler and let us run through it. A few times it seemed oppressively warm at our cottage too - which is where we'd go to try to escape the heat in the Soo. I acquired sunburns on the shores of Lake Superior on days when the sand burned our feet as we danced across it to the water's edge. Luckily the lake could always be counted on to cool us off! Where is that darned lake when I need it?
The problem with days like this is that you can't avoid the heat entirely. You still need to do a few things outside. Miraculously, weeds don't stop growing no matter how bad the drought. Every day this week I've gone out in the morning to water plant pots and weed a section of my flowerbeds. I come in dripping sweat and thinking that surely between the perspiring I do and the scant amount I ingest on these hot days I'll shed a few pounds, but it hasn't happened yet. Part of the problem is that I'm too sedentary when I'm housebound. Apparently sweeping and vacuuming aren't enough exercise. I might need to start running laps in this big old house - down the main floor hallway, up the steps, through the upper hall, down the back stairs - and repeat...
The worst of it is the brain rot that sets in when I'm housebound. Sheesh - even though I really like my house I've barely been out of it in more than a week. Sunday at our community's Canada Day celebrations I tried to socialize, but every time I opened my mouth nothing but gibberish escaped.
As I type this post I see clouds gathering outside my window. Oh - bring on a summer storm to wet my parched grass and provide a break from this heat...but the clouds roll on by, mocking me as they pass.
"Save me, Save me!!" screams my heat scrambled brain.
I haven't melted yet - but I think I hear sloshing between my ears.
Beneath the sun's relentless rays
my thoughts are turning foggy -
this torrid heat's gone on for days
and even nights are soggy.
Steam rises from the city streets
that are almost deserted;
the shortest walk my strength defeats -
I'm overly exerted.
I'm swimming in humidity -
my body saturated -
while heat zaps my lucidity
and leaves me agitated.
I've never felt such gratitude
for air-conditioned shelter;
no comfort even for the nude -
outdoors it's like a smelter.
I feel no urge to cook or bake,
my appetite is waning,
but as I strive my thirst to slake
such water weight I'm gaining!
The grass threatens to blow away,
the flowers wilt, dejected.
I hope this heat's not here to stay -
this needs to be corrected.
I know some love this summer heat
and baking in the hot sun,
but my baked brain admits defeat
and wants the heat to be done!
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, August 2006
Yikes! It's been hot out there! Hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk, or to burn your knee on the surface of a flatbed truck. (Which happened to a friend on Sunday.) Yup - there's no denying that it's been hot.
I guess last time I felt bothered enough by the heat to write about it was in the summer of 2006. I was working in a very tiny (but blessedly air-conditioned) health food store a fifteen minute walk from my where I lived. Those walks to and from work seemed crazily long, and I'd arrive at work, or back at home, feeling like a badly wrung out (and nasty smelling!) dish cloth. The store was located in one of those little neighbourhood plazas that rely heavily on foot traffic, and those hot summer days were eerily quiet. I spent a lot of time trying to write poems - which were often less than stellar. (This one was pretty bad, so I edited extensively.) My mind doesn't function well in heat, and when you add a liberal dose of menopause into the mix of that era, you can imagine how my poor brain felt like it was being boiled in the sweat of my misery.
Some people love heat. They bask in it like lizards sunning on rocks. I marvel that they don't actually melt into gelatinous goo.
"Is it still nice out?" asked a server in the sub shop a few days back. We'd gone in to grab a few sandwiches rather than warming up the kitchen by turning on the oven to cook. I tried to think back to the last day I'd considered "nice." Was it last Tuesday or Wednesday? My heat addled memory was uncertain. For at least a week I've been giving my plants extra water, staying indoors most of the day, and taking walks in the evening when the sun isn't quite as hot. You know it's bad when you step outside at 8:00 pm and still feel like you're walking into a convection oven.
Every morning I check the weather to see extreme heat warnings. When will it end? If this isn't global warming, what is?
Some people try to trivialize the heat in their area.
"It's a dry heat", folks in Arizona will tell you. "So much easier to bear than where it's humid!"
I'm sorry, but when you start talking about extremely hot weather it's terrible whether it's dry or humid. Whether I get boiled or fried, I'll still get cooked!
I get no sympathy when I gripe about the heat.
"It's better than the cold!" people tell me emphatically.
I disagree. In the winter I can add layers of clothing, but in summer there's only so much I'm willing to take off.
I've never loved heat. As a child growing up in Northern Ontario it wasn't that much of an issue, thankfully. Our house wasn't air-conditioned, and I slept upstairs. On those nights when it was uncomfortable in our room, my sister and I would relocate to a folding bed in the basement rec room. It was rustic, but bearable. On the hottest days, my father might pull out the sprinkler and let us run through it. A few times it seemed oppressively warm at our cottage too - which is where we'd go to try to escape the heat in the Soo. I acquired sunburns on the shores of Lake Superior on days when the sand burned our feet as we danced across it to the water's edge. Luckily the lake could always be counted on to cool us off! Where is that darned lake when I need it?
The problem with days like this is that you can't avoid the heat entirely. You still need to do a few things outside. Miraculously, weeds don't stop growing no matter how bad the drought. Every day this week I've gone out in the morning to water plant pots and weed a section of my flowerbeds. I come in dripping sweat and thinking that surely between the perspiring I do and the scant amount I ingest on these hot days I'll shed a few pounds, but it hasn't happened yet. Part of the problem is that I'm too sedentary when I'm housebound. Apparently sweeping and vacuuming aren't enough exercise. I might need to start running laps in this big old house - down the main floor hallway, up the steps, through the upper hall, down the back stairs - and repeat...
The worst of it is the brain rot that sets in when I'm housebound. Sheesh - even though I really like my house I've barely been out of it in more than a week. Sunday at our community's Canada Day celebrations I tried to socialize, but every time I opened my mouth nothing but gibberish escaped.
As I type this post I see clouds gathering outside my window. Oh - bring on a summer storm to wet my parched grass and provide a break from this heat...but the clouds roll on by, mocking me as they pass.
"Save me, Save me!!" screams my heat scrambled brain.
I haven't melted yet - but I think I hear sloshing between my ears.
Tuesday, 19 June 2018
Choose Your D-Word - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Choose Your D-Word
Dammit, stoppit -
staunch the flow,
hold it fast so
it won't go.
Darn it - mend it,
learn to sew.
Weave up holes
before they grow.
Diff'rent meanings
clearly shown -
do you want it
stopped or sewn?
One is not the
other's clone -
choose before the
word has flown.
Only one word
can apply.
Choose your d-word,
let it fly.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg - (an undated verse from the unfinished file)
I was raised to not cuss. Sure, my parents both dropped the occasional sh*t or d*mn in moments of extreme frustration, but we didn't hear such words bandied about in polite conversation.
Being a temperamental child, I became adept at substituting other words when I was angry. (Most of the time. I was still apt to drop a few genuine profanities when I was fairly certain nobody was around to hear them. Nobody's perfect.)
"Darn it" was a perfectly acceptable phrase to utter when things went wrong, and so I spent my childhood constantly darning things.
One day in my thirties I sat down and made some notes about the way the two words differed. Somewhere along the line it had occurred to me that the two words that I'd considered synonymous really weren't. To darn something is to fix it, but damning (by LDS - Mormon definition) is stopping, or blocking, like the Hoover Dam. By typical Christian definition, it means "condemning" - either way, HUGE difference.
Darning is a dying, if not dead, art. (Does anybody darn holes anymore?) We're such a commercially-geared, disposable society that we toss out our socks when our toes break free of their confines.
Unlike sewing, darning doesn't bring the two sides of the hole together - instead it fills the hole with a criss-crossed weave of threads that is often stronger than the original knitting. But on the downside, like a garment with a sewn on patch, something darned will never look new. Even with a good colour match a darn will always be obvious - it will look different, and feel different from the rest of the item concerned.
I suspect that darning fell out of favour because we don't like to advertise our thriftiness, or put our imperfections on display. Appearances are too important to most of us; we want to look nice - and (usually) want our clothing to be in good repair - to look "like new." In a society too often inclined towards disposing of anything that seems worn, it's no surprise that we don't see a lot of darned sweaters or socks.
Figurative "darning" certainly has its applications, but still isn't utilized as often as it ought to be. Two things immediately come to mind when I consider what is worth my darning efforts.
First of all, I'm worth a darn. I've got a few holes that need more than a stitch or two. There's not a whole lot in this world that I get to determine, but I can decide how to improve myself. Some of those fixes won't be pretty, but I'm not going to worry about how perfect I appear at this point. I have a few flaws that could stand a good fix - a bit of darning wouldn't be amiss, and perhaps where the holes once were I'll build something that really matters - something that strengthens my character or sustains my spirit. I might find important causes to involve myself in, or develop new talents. I can try to be open to new experiences and the knowledge they offer me. I can concentrate on being more kind, or compassionate, or on working toward becoming more patient and peaceful.
Self-improvement is kind of like cleaning out your closet - you need to be the one to make choices - decide what you'll keep, what you'll mend, and what you're willing to sacrifice. Nobody else gets to participate in your sacred ritual of closet-cleaning, so why should anyone else be welcome to point out all of your flaws, or consign your soul to some cosmic scrap heap?
I might be a "fixer-upper", but I don't deserve to be condemned.
Once you've made some progress on your self-renovation, you can turn your attention to strengthening the second most important part of your life - your relationships.
Relationships are often filled with holes that might seem too gaping to mend. When you try to sew up that big old hole you'll always see a pucker, right? So don't sew it - darn it. The fix will be obvious, but it will create something stronger than you had before. That "hole" can be replaced by a bridge between two different points of view, an outward testament to the fact that you were willing to shift your priorities from having relationships that "look good" to ones more honest and open - with the strength to endure whatever changes and challenges they might face.
People, especially those who've touched our lives, aren't a disposable commodity. Most "things" don't matter that much - we can donate our old clothes to Goodwill without ever giving them another thought. We can change opinions and cede long-cherished beliefs without feeling a huge, permanent void in our lives. However, if we can walk away from a family member or a longtime friendship without a backward glance - then there's something missing from our own soul. There's no comparison between the person you barely knew and blocked online, and refusing to engage with "realtime" friends and family members. The people who've mattered to me, the ones with whom I share memories, history and genes, will always be worth a darn.
I suppose it's no great surprise that "darn it!" was the commonest exclamation of my youth. We were required to fix things endlessly, that was the generational expectation of our parents, who were raised during the Depression. "Make do, or do without" was their mantra. It was a cultural expectation in the faith I was raised in too. Darn up your holes in order to be holy. If you can't believe it, the fault lies with you - so you'd better do some fixing. Ideologies - political and religious, can get darned until there's nothing of the original fabric left... Sometimes they'd be better discarded - stopped, instead of "fixed". In my opinion, we'd be better off putting more stock in the people in our lives than worrying about who agrees with us. Why do we expend so much time and energy maintaining the outward appearance of agreement - "making nice" - when we could be focusing on being kinder, more accepting, and more tolerant of other's differences? Maybe instead of damning with the faintest praise we could darn up some holes with renewed compassion, with fond remembrance, genuine compliments - and most especially - with love.
I've walked away from a few ideologies throughout my life; stopped believing, chosen to discard them and made a darned decent effort to not publicly condemn them. I'm doing my darnedest to hold onto relationships with all of the people I care about - no matter how often we disagree. You are still my sister, my brother, my friend, my neighbour. I intend to keep my darning needle handy.
I can substitute one word for another - even when the meanings are changed. I can - I have, and I will - change my mind plenty of times before I depart this mortal coil. I haven't got my life sewn up yet, it's an ever evolving work in progress. There will be things I'll darn, and things I'll - well, stop doing - or even condemn. But I'll not be damned - stopped, or condemned - for trying to continue caring, or for believing in the power of love.
Love is the best darned thing around.
Dammit, stoppit -
staunch the flow,
hold it fast so
it won't go.
Darn it - mend it,
learn to sew.
Weave up holes
before they grow.
Diff'rent meanings
clearly shown -
do you want it
stopped or sewn?
One is not the
other's clone -
choose before the
word has flown.
Only one word
can apply.
Choose your d-word,
let it fly.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg - (an undated verse from the unfinished file)
I was raised to not cuss. Sure, my parents both dropped the occasional sh*t or d*mn in moments of extreme frustration, but we didn't hear such words bandied about in polite conversation.
Being a temperamental child, I became adept at substituting other words when I was angry. (Most of the time. I was still apt to drop a few genuine profanities when I was fairly certain nobody was around to hear them. Nobody's perfect.)
"Darn it" was a perfectly acceptable phrase to utter when things went wrong, and so I spent my childhood constantly darning things.
One day in my thirties I sat down and made some notes about the way the two words differed. Somewhere along the line it had occurred to me that the two words that I'd considered synonymous really weren't. To darn something is to fix it, but damning (by LDS - Mormon definition) is stopping, or blocking, like the Hoover Dam. By typical Christian definition, it means "condemning" - either way, HUGE difference.
Darning is a dying, if not dead, art. (Does anybody darn holes anymore?) We're such a commercially-geared, disposable society that we toss out our socks when our toes break free of their confines.
Unlike sewing, darning doesn't bring the two sides of the hole together - instead it fills the hole with a criss-crossed weave of threads that is often stronger than the original knitting. But on the downside, like a garment with a sewn on patch, something darned will never look new. Even with a good colour match a darn will always be obvious - it will look different, and feel different from the rest of the item concerned.
I suspect that darning fell out of favour because we don't like to advertise our thriftiness, or put our imperfections on display. Appearances are too important to most of us; we want to look nice - and (usually) want our clothing to be in good repair - to look "like new." In a society too often inclined towards disposing of anything that seems worn, it's no surprise that we don't see a lot of darned sweaters or socks.
Figurative "darning" certainly has its applications, but still isn't utilized as often as it ought to be. Two things immediately come to mind when I consider what is worth my darning efforts.
First of all, I'm worth a darn. I've got a few holes that need more than a stitch or two. There's not a whole lot in this world that I get to determine, but I can decide how to improve myself. Some of those fixes won't be pretty, but I'm not going to worry about how perfect I appear at this point. I have a few flaws that could stand a good fix - a bit of darning wouldn't be amiss, and perhaps where the holes once were I'll build something that really matters - something that strengthens my character or sustains my spirit. I might find important causes to involve myself in, or develop new talents. I can try to be open to new experiences and the knowledge they offer me. I can concentrate on being more kind, or compassionate, or on working toward becoming more patient and peaceful.
Self-improvement is kind of like cleaning out your closet - you need to be the one to make choices - decide what you'll keep, what you'll mend, and what you're willing to sacrifice. Nobody else gets to participate in your sacred ritual of closet-cleaning, so why should anyone else be welcome to point out all of your flaws, or consign your soul to some cosmic scrap heap?
I might be a "fixer-upper", but I don't deserve to be condemned.
Once you've made some progress on your self-renovation, you can turn your attention to strengthening the second most important part of your life - your relationships.
Relationships are often filled with holes that might seem too gaping to mend. When you try to sew up that big old hole you'll always see a pucker, right? So don't sew it - darn it. The fix will be obvious, but it will create something stronger than you had before. That "hole" can be replaced by a bridge between two different points of view, an outward testament to the fact that you were willing to shift your priorities from having relationships that "look good" to ones more honest and open - with the strength to endure whatever changes and challenges they might face.
People, especially those who've touched our lives, aren't a disposable commodity. Most "things" don't matter that much - we can donate our old clothes to Goodwill without ever giving them another thought. We can change opinions and cede long-cherished beliefs without feeling a huge, permanent void in our lives. However, if we can walk away from a family member or a longtime friendship without a backward glance - then there's something missing from our own soul. There's no comparison between the person you barely knew and blocked online, and refusing to engage with "realtime" friends and family members. The people who've mattered to me, the ones with whom I share memories, history and genes, will always be worth a darn.
I suppose it's no great surprise that "darn it!" was the commonest exclamation of my youth. We were required to fix things endlessly, that was the generational expectation of our parents, who were raised during the Depression. "Make do, or do without" was their mantra. It was a cultural expectation in the faith I was raised in too. Darn up your holes in order to be holy. If you can't believe it, the fault lies with you - so you'd better do some fixing. Ideologies - political and religious, can get darned until there's nothing of the original fabric left... Sometimes they'd be better discarded - stopped, instead of "fixed". In my opinion, we'd be better off putting more stock in the people in our lives than worrying about who agrees with us. Why do we expend so much time and energy maintaining the outward appearance of agreement - "making nice" - when we could be focusing on being kinder, more accepting, and more tolerant of other's differences? Maybe instead of damning with the faintest praise we could darn up some holes with renewed compassion, with fond remembrance, genuine compliments - and most especially - with love.
I've walked away from a few ideologies throughout my life; stopped believing, chosen to discard them and made a darned decent effort to not publicly condemn them. I'm doing my darnedest to hold onto relationships with all of the people I care about - no matter how often we disagree. You are still my sister, my brother, my friend, my neighbour. I intend to keep my darning needle handy.
I can substitute one word for another - even when the meanings are changed. I can - I have, and I will - change my mind plenty of times before I depart this mortal coil. I haven't got my life sewn up yet, it's an ever evolving work in progress. There will be things I'll darn, and things I'll - well, stop doing - or even condemn. But I'll not be damned - stopped, or condemned - for trying to continue caring, or for believing in the power of love.
Love is the best darned thing around.
Friday, 1 June 2018
Strange Armour - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Strange Armour
A sandwich board of mattresses
she felt she had to wear;
each day so full of battle stress
emotions were laid bare.
Was there a sign upon her back
inviting kicks and blows;
inciting others to attack
and multiply her woes?
Thus every day she'd bear the weight
of strange armour she chose,
and though attacks did not abate
she felt numb to the blows.
But at the end of every day,
with arms and shoulders sore,
her tortured muscles had to pay
for all the weight she bore.
Until at length she came to see
the armour she preferred
restricted all her movements free
and pain simply deferred.
At last she stood with armour shed -
and yes, the world was rough -
she would get hurt, and sometimes bled,
but would, at last, grow tough.
Unpadded she was light and quick,
her range of movement free;
at times she could avoid a kick
with some agility.
Still other times she seemed to sense
attacks before they came,
and fled before blows could commence -
and for this felt no shame.
Her padding she no longer missed,
in fact, it seemed to be
that many conflicts did desist
once she was armour-free.
Strange armour many of us choose
in effort to protect
from battles we fear we might lose
and dangers we detect.
But strangely, sometimes armour acts
as something to incite
those who desire to grind an axe
or prove themselves "more right."
Be brave, my friend, and fight without
the padding that you choose -
You will get hurt, without a doubt,
but burden you will lose.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, May 2018
I was upset by an online exchange I had with a complete stranger.
"What do you have to do to survive these days? Sometimes I feel like I need to go through life wearing a sandwich board made of mattresses!" I said to my husband.
"Good imagery!" he replied. "I sense a poem in the making!"
That brief exchange got me thinking about the weight of many of the types of armour that we choose to put on. The ways we attempt to self-protect are often only a temporary fix - a way to numb the immediate, but lesser pain that we initially experience. But like the sandwich board made of mattresses in the poem, a lot of our protective armour does us more harm than the attacks it's trying to protect us from.
I spent a lot of years of my life trying desperately to protect myself with all kinds of ineffective armour. I tried on anger and sarcasm. In my insecure youth there were times I wished fervently for the protection of an invisibility cloak. As an adult I hid behind beliefs that often didn't sit right with me, tenaciously hanging on for years, even after I realized that the afterlife promised to me (a woman with an "unbeliever" for a husband) really sucked. But, doggone it - I'd been taught that this was the only way to live, and that leaving would make me a sinner, so I hung on - for decades.
I hung on by my fingernails even when people told me I should leave my husband and find someone "more righteous." I hung on when I was made to feel small; made to feel like I had to live small - all scrunched up inside myself among people who were ready to condemn on a whim. I hung on when I began to see that I'd been fed a false narrative. I hung on while every hymn began to sound like a funeral dirge that was sucking the life out of me. Yup - I excelled as a hanger-on.
Through it all, I donned one kind of strange armour after another. I put on a helmet of denial. I tried on protective eyewear that kept me (for a time) from seeing that I wasn't happy - but it also prevented me from seeing most of the good in life. I suited up every day in the kind of full-on body armour that kept me safe from "outside influences" and from the slings and arrows tossed by what I thought of as "my tribe". I continued to think of them as mine even when it became painfully apparent that I was't really one of them.
And when I took off that armour at night I ached. I hurt everywhere - misery to the bone and the soul. I tossed and turned at night and then suited up again in the morning.
One day I looked around and realized that "my tribe" didn't seem that happy either. I couldn't do anything about what I perceived as their misery and apathy, but I could do something about mine. It was difficult for me to trade false certainty for certain vulnerability, but that's what I did.
Eventually I began to remove the protective layers - one at a time. My anger arrived first, and I'm pretty sure it'll be the last piece I'll divest myself of. But let me tell you, I feel less burdened - in spite of the twenty pounds of stress weight I gained as I learned that I could still be me - and maybe even a better and kinder me - without padding. I don't need to "belong" in any particular group to be accepted. I can accept myself - warts and all - as a contributing member in the larger and more diverse group called humanity. I'm allowed to love the flawed, because I am the flawed. I'm allowed to be ignorant, but happy.
I can doubt all I want, and stop bailing when the boat takes on water. I can take a nosedive into the depths of uncertainty and explore. I'm no longer being dragged under by the weight of all my armour.
Every day might not be a fairy tale filled with unicorns, but at least I can see rainbows after rain and dance without worrying about falling off my pedestal.
I am free - and light. Someday I'll fly.
A sandwich board of mattresses
she felt she had to wear;
each day so full of battle stress
emotions were laid bare.
Was there a sign upon her back
inviting kicks and blows;
inciting others to attack
and multiply her woes?
Thus every day she'd bear the weight
of strange armour she chose,
and though attacks did not abate
she felt numb to the blows.
But at the end of every day,
with arms and shoulders sore,
her tortured muscles had to pay
for all the weight she bore.
Until at length she came to see
the armour she preferred
restricted all her movements free
and pain simply deferred.
At last she stood with armour shed -
and yes, the world was rough -
she would get hurt, and sometimes bled,
but would, at last, grow tough.
Unpadded she was light and quick,
her range of movement free;
at times she could avoid a kick
with some agility.
Still other times she seemed to sense
attacks before they came,
and fled before blows could commence -
and for this felt no shame.
Her padding she no longer missed,
in fact, it seemed to be
that many conflicts did desist
once she was armour-free.
Strange armour many of us choose
in effort to protect
from battles we fear we might lose
and dangers we detect.
But strangely, sometimes armour acts
as something to incite
those who desire to grind an axe
or prove themselves "more right."
Be brave, my friend, and fight without
the padding that you choose -
You will get hurt, without a doubt,
but burden you will lose.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, May 2018
I was upset by an online exchange I had with a complete stranger.
"What do you have to do to survive these days? Sometimes I feel like I need to go through life wearing a sandwich board made of mattresses!" I said to my husband.
"Good imagery!" he replied. "I sense a poem in the making!"
That brief exchange got me thinking about the weight of many of the types of armour that we choose to put on. The ways we attempt to self-protect are often only a temporary fix - a way to numb the immediate, but lesser pain that we initially experience. But like the sandwich board made of mattresses in the poem, a lot of our protective armour does us more harm than the attacks it's trying to protect us from.
I spent a lot of years of my life trying desperately to protect myself with all kinds of ineffective armour. I tried on anger and sarcasm. In my insecure youth there were times I wished fervently for the protection of an invisibility cloak. As an adult I hid behind beliefs that often didn't sit right with me, tenaciously hanging on for years, even after I realized that the afterlife promised to me (a woman with an "unbeliever" for a husband) really sucked. But, doggone it - I'd been taught that this was the only way to live, and that leaving would make me a sinner, so I hung on - for decades.
I hung on by my fingernails even when people told me I should leave my husband and find someone "more righteous." I hung on when I was made to feel small; made to feel like I had to live small - all scrunched up inside myself among people who were ready to condemn on a whim. I hung on when I began to see that I'd been fed a false narrative. I hung on while every hymn began to sound like a funeral dirge that was sucking the life out of me. Yup - I excelled as a hanger-on.
Through it all, I donned one kind of strange armour after another. I put on a helmet of denial. I tried on protective eyewear that kept me (for a time) from seeing that I wasn't happy - but it also prevented me from seeing most of the good in life. I suited up every day in the kind of full-on body armour that kept me safe from "outside influences" and from the slings and arrows tossed by what I thought of as "my tribe". I continued to think of them as mine even when it became painfully apparent that I was't really one of them.
And when I took off that armour at night I ached. I hurt everywhere - misery to the bone and the soul. I tossed and turned at night and then suited up again in the morning.
One day I looked around and realized that "my tribe" didn't seem that happy either. I couldn't do anything about what I perceived as their misery and apathy, but I could do something about mine. It was difficult for me to trade false certainty for certain vulnerability, but that's what I did.
Eventually I began to remove the protective layers - one at a time. My anger arrived first, and I'm pretty sure it'll be the last piece I'll divest myself of. But let me tell you, I feel less burdened - in spite of the twenty pounds of stress weight I gained as I learned that I could still be me - and maybe even a better and kinder me - without padding. I don't need to "belong" in any particular group to be accepted. I can accept myself - warts and all - as a contributing member in the larger and more diverse group called humanity. I'm allowed to love the flawed, because I am the flawed. I'm allowed to be ignorant, but happy.
I can doubt all I want, and stop bailing when the boat takes on water. I can take a nosedive into the depths of uncertainty and explore. I'm no longer being dragged under by the weight of all my armour.
Every day might not be a fairy tale filled with unicorns, but at least I can see rainbows after rain and dance without worrying about falling off my pedestal.
I am free - and light. Someday I'll fly.
Saturday, 12 May 2018
My Mother's Hands - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
My Mother's Hands
Love was in those seamlines,
this I've come to know -
through her daily actions,
My mom's love would show.
Hands stirred pots at mealtimes,
fed her hungry brood;
extra bodies didn't
put her in bad mood.
Friends were always welcomed,
guests we'd often see -
truly Mom embodied
hospitality.
Her hands, strong and able,
made the clothes we wore,
swiftly peeled potatoes;
mopped the kitchen floor.
They kept campfires burning,
stoked the wood stove's flames,
dealt cards in the evening;
beat us at board games!
They flipped perfect pancakes
in cast iron pan;
banged upon the outhouse
so the critters ran!
With her hands she showed love;
teaching something true:
While words are important,
love's in what you do.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, May 12, 2018
One of my early memories of my mother is watching her stir cake batter in a bowl. I was amazed by how quickly she could beat that batter by hand, and for years tried to emulate her without much success. I was probably thirty by the time I'd mastered "the Power Stir" and I suspect hauling around an infant and a toddler had something to do with acquiring the necessary biceps to do so. This feat invoked the same kind of awe in my young sons as I'd once experienced. Isn't that one of the joys of motherhood? When they're little our children are so sweet and easy to impress!
My mother was never verbally effusive when I was young. She didn't gush over any of us or brag about us to friends, but she showed her love through service. She was a gifted seamstress who made a lot of the clothing my sisters and I wore, sometimes sewing long into the night so that we'd have a new dress for a special occasion. She was a good cook and baker, and she made us hearty and plentiful meals. My parents both had a very open door attitude - everyone's friends were welcome. It wasn't a big deal to ask my mom if a friend could stay for supper - in fact it was really just a formality. I don't remember her ever saying no. In fact, if she realized there was an extra body in the house she'd usually issue the invite herself.
Mom's inner child emerged most often when we were at camp. (That means at our cottage on Lake Superior, for those unfamiliar with Northern Ontario terminology.) She could skip rocks like a pro and taught us all how to row a boat. She loved playing cards and board games in the evenings - by the light of our trusty Coleman lantern. (We didn't get electricity in the cabin until my late teens.) I don't remember her complaining about cooking meals on the wood stove or having no running water out there. She was pretty stoic about boiling cooking water hauled from the lake and accompanying us to the outhouse when somebody reported seeing a snake on the commode. What I do remember is her teaching me how to make hats out of woven leaves, and taking long walks with her up the camp road. Often these walks were motivated by her desire to scout for wild raspberries, and while none of us ever itched to do the picking, we could usually be motivated to fill a bucket or two by the promise of fresh raspberry pie!
Piecrust is still one of my mother's specialties - a home-baked pie from my mother's kitchen is an offer few can refuse - love in a pie plate! My siblings who live further afield will tell you that no visit to see my mother is complete without pie. She was taught at the hands of the best. My grandmother Gardiner was a superb baker, and thinking of visits to her house as a child makes my mouth water. One of the proudest moments of my life was when a sibling tasted a pie I'd baked and proclaimed it "as good as Mom's."
Making holidays special for us was important to my mother. Every birthday she'd ask us how many friends we wanted to invite, what meal we wanted served, and what kind of cake she should make. She didn't gripe if we invited ten kids over and she needed to make an extra cake. She baked like a fiend at Christmastime, not only so that we'd enjoy the seasonal offerings, but so that she'd have plenty to share. Every year she'd share her famous "Swedish Tea Ring" with lucky friends from her church and square dance club. To this day, when she visits me at Christmastime, she'll arrive with a circular foil wrapped bundle under one arm, and I'm sure my siblings can say the same.
My mother is getting older, but she still loves to entertain, and visit friends and family. She still beats me routinely at Rummikub. She's mellowed a bit in some ways, and is maybe more stubborn than ever in others. Still, we seem to laugh together more often than we used to.
Last week I spent a night at her apartment and realized at bedtime that I'd forgotten my toothbrush. She said she probably had one laying around and proceeded to dig - and came up with two options. One was an unused denture brush - HUGE - (esp. for one who's mouth has been likened to "a large barn with a small door"), and the other was passed on, sans package, by a friend of hers. I rejected them both in favour of baking soda and my own finger. She thought I was being ridiculously fussy and told me so.
"When did you become such a pain in the butt?" she asked.
"I've always been, Mom", I assured her. "Thanks for just noticing now!"
"Well," she sighed in a resigned tone, "I still love you, even though you're a pain!"
"Same here!" I replied cheekily.
"Don't be a wise guy!" she laughed. Then we gave each other a kiss good-night and went off to our beds.
I don't know how many more years I'll have my mom. Hopefully we can keep on giving each other the gears for a while, but I know time can't be guaranteed. I hope she knows how much I appreciate all of the things her hands have done to make my life easier, and hope she knows that she taught me the importance of showing love through service.
When we were young she'd sometimes get impatient with us, her children, for lazing about when there were things to be done.
"Be a self-starter", she'd say, "Don't wait for someone to tell you to do something. Just pay attention and do whatever you think needs to be done!"
There have been times when I felt like I was channeling her - and those words echoed in my brain. Sometimes I was the frustrated parent thinking, "Why aren't they helping me?" Other times I was the person standing on the sidelines, feeling guilty for not doing enough, or wondering what needed to be done - then taking a deep breath and just doing something.
My mom taught me that love is a verb. So, in honour of busy maternal hands everywhere, lets strive to be "verb-al" in our appreciation for the women whose hands worked hard to raise us.
Happy Mother's Day to all of us - especially my mom, who tried to teach me well. I love you, Mom!
Love was in those seamlines,
this I've come to know -
through her daily actions,
My mom's love would show.
Hands stirred pots at mealtimes,
fed her hungry brood;
extra bodies didn't
put her in bad mood.
Friends were always welcomed,
guests we'd often see -
truly Mom embodied
hospitality.
Her hands, strong and able,
made the clothes we wore,
swiftly peeled potatoes;
mopped the kitchen floor.
They kept campfires burning,
stoked the wood stove's flames,
dealt cards in the evening;
beat us at board games!
They flipped perfect pancakes
in cast iron pan;
banged upon the outhouse
so the critters ran!
With her hands she showed love;
teaching something true:
While words are important,
love's in what you do.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, May 12, 2018
One of my early memories of my mother is watching her stir cake batter in a bowl. I was amazed by how quickly she could beat that batter by hand, and for years tried to emulate her without much success. I was probably thirty by the time I'd mastered "the Power Stir" and I suspect hauling around an infant and a toddler had something to do with acquiring the necessary biceps to do so. This feat invoked the same kind of awe in my young sons as I'd once experienced. Isn't that one of the joys of motherhood? When they're little our children are so sweet and easy to impress!
My mother was never verbally effusive when I was young. She didn't gush over any of us or brag about us to friends, but she showed her love through service. She was a gifted seamstress who made a lot of the clothing my sisters and I wore, sometimes sewing long into the night so that we'd have a new dress for a special occasion. She was a good cook and baker, and she made us hearty and plentiful meals. My parents both had a very open door attitude - everyone's friends were welcome. It wasn't a big deal to ask my mom if a friend could stay for supper - in fact it was really just a formality. I don't remember her ever saying no. In fact, if she realized there was an extra body in the house she'd usually issue the invite herself.
Mom's inner child emerged most often when we were at camp. (That means at our cottage on Lake Superior, for those unfamiliar with Northern Ontario terminology.) She could skip rocks like a pro and taught us all how to row a boat. She loved playing cards and board games in the evenings - by the light of our trusty Coleman lantern. (We didn't get electricity in the cabin until my late teens.) I don't remember her complaining about cooking meals on the wood stove or having no running water out there. She was pretty stoic about boiling cooking water hauled from the lake and accompanying us to the outhouse when somebody reported seeing a snake on the commode. What I do remember is her teaching me how to make hats out of woven leaves, and taking long walks with her up the camp road. Often these walks were motivated by her desire to scout for wild raspberries, and while none of us ever itched to do the picking, we could usually be motivated to fill a bucket or two by the promise of fresh raspberry pie!
Piecrust is still one of my mother's specialties - a home-baked pie from my mother's kitchen is an offer few can refuse - love in a pie plate! My siblings who live further afield will tell you that no visit to see my mother is complete without pie. She was taught at the hands of the best. My grandmother Gardiner was a superb baker, and thinking of visits to her house as a child makes my mouth water. One of the proudest moments of my life was when a sibling tasted a pie I'd baked and proclaimed it "as good as Mom's."
Making holidays special for us was important to my mother. Every birthday she'd ask us how many friends we wanted to invite, what meal we wanted served, and what kind of cake she should make. She didn't gripe if we invited ten kids over and she needed to make an extra cake. She baked like a fiend at Christmastime, not only so that we'd enjoy the seasonal offerings, but so that she'd have plenty to share. Every year she'd share her famous "Swedish Tea Ring" with lucky friends from her church and square dance club. To this day, when she visits me at Christmastime, she'll arrive with a circular foil wrapped bundle under one arm, and I'm sure my siblings can say the same.
My mother is getting older, but she still loves to entertain, and visit friends and family. She still beats me routinely at Rummikub. She's mellowed a bit in some ways, and is maybe more stubborn than ever in others. Still, we seem to laugh together more often than we used to.
Last week I spent a night at her apartment and realized at bedtime that I'd forgotten my toothbrush. She said she probably had one laying around and proceeded to dig - and came up with two options. One was an unused denture brush - HUGE - (esp. for one who's mouth has been likened to "a large barn with a small door"), and the other was passed on, sans package, by a friend of hers. I rejected them both in favour of baking soda and my own finger. She thought I was being ridiculously fussy and told me so.
"When did you become such a pain in the butt?" she asked.
"I've always been, Mom", I assured her. "Thanks for just noticing now!"
"Well," she sighed in a resigned tone, "I still love you, even though you're a pain!"
"Same here!" I replied cheekily.
"Don't be a wise guy!" she laughed. Then we gave each other a kiss good-night and went off to our beds.
I don't know how many more years I'll have my mom. Hopefully we can keep on giving each other the gears for a while, but I know time can't be guaranteed. I hope she knows how much I appreciate all of the things her hands have done to make my life easier, and hope she knows that she taught me the importance of showing love through service.
When we were young she'd sometimes get impatient with us, her children, for lazing about when there were things to be done.
"Be a self-starter", she'd say, "Don't wait for someone to tell you to do something. Just pay attention and do whatever you think needs to be done!"
There have been times when I felt like I was channeling her - and those words echoed in my brain. Sometimes I was the frustrated parent thinking, "Why aren't they helping me?" Other times I was the person standing on the sidelines, feeling guilty for not doing enough, or wondering what needed to be done - then taking a deep breath and just doing something.
My mom taught me that love is a verb. So, in honour of busy maternal hands everywhere, lets strive to be "verb-al" in our appreciation for the women whose hands worked hard to raise us.
Happy Mother's Day to all of us - especially my mom, who tried to teach me well. I love you, Mom!
Thursday, 3 May 2018
When Spring Springs - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Last week I was outside, in my boots and winter coat, chipping away at ice. The temperature was just creeping up above freezing, and the sun was trying to shine. The snow had already melted in most of my yard, but the driveway - shaded most of the day by my looming Victorian house - stubbornly clung to its layer of ice. I decided it had to be gone - pronto.
"Why?" my husband asked - "You know it's going to melt in a day or two anyhow, right?"
"Not soon enough!" I replied. "I refuse to step out my back door onto ice for one more day!"
For the first time in my life I could relate to the middle-aged people I'd always laughed at - the ones who frantically shovel their driveway snow out onto a sunny patch of the road.
It was time for Spring to spring, doggone it!
Canadians get impatient when winter outstays its welcome. About 3% of us suffer from SAD, and just want the cold days to end. The rest of us just get mad. I get antsy when the seasons refuse to align themselves with the neat divisions on the calendar. Back in April of 2010 I penned this untitled ode:
On a frosty Friday morning
when the rain has turned to snow
I have brain freeze and I'm foggy
and my wheels are moving slow.
I'm affected by this weather -
Silly? Yes - but it is true.
I've invited in the grey sky
and it's left me feeling blue.
It has been a rough Spring - a late Spring. An almost non-existent Spring. A Spring that is finally making an appearance now that it's half over. Whenever we have snow in April I tell myself it's an anomaly. Apparently I live in denial when it comes to the crazy seasonal temperature fluctuations that exist in my part of the world.
Still, I know it could be worse.
"Welcome to _______ (insert Northern Ontario city/town of your choice here) where we have ten months of winter and two months of bad ski-dooing!"
Spring in Sault Ste. Marie, where I grew up, was all over the board. Some years we were still ice-skating over our March break, and other years we were riding bicycles in Spring jackets. I always knew the so called season of rejuvenation was fickle in Northern Ontario, but as time goes on it seems that she appears in her own time, and on her own terms, wherever I live.
My attitude toward Spring's arrival is about as capricious as she is. Some years I can't wait for Winter to be gone, and other years I'm capable of amazing forbearance. Apparently 2014 found me feeling more upbeat about Spring's arrival than I'd been four years earlier:
Spring Hopes Eternal
The sky was blue, the sun shone bright
though frigid was the day -
I wore my winter coat and boots
but felt Spring anyway.
Old Winter blew tenaciously;
I didn't really care.
Spring wasn't in the bitter wind,
but she was in the air!
I tromped through mud, I heard a bird -
an optimistic sound!
Snow blanketed the frozen soil,
but Spring was all around.
The calendar announcing Spring
was premature - that's clear.
Perhaps Spring isn't quite here yet -
but I can feel her near!
(Sharon Flood Kasenberg, March 23, 2014)
I'm learning that Spring, like anything else, is what we make it. I try not to let the weather upset me too much, but my efforts to remain stoic aren't always successful. Unlike many around me I try not to rush her arrival. This year we got two weeks of warm weather in February, and I was uneasy the whole time. Everywhere around me I saw people getting excited - overly hopeful that winter days were over and warmer days were here to stay. I felt like the lone doomsayer.
"We're going to pay for this in April!" I'd tell people. "Mother Nature has a sick sense of humour."
And (of course) they'd tell me not to be pessimistic. But truly my warnings stemmed from sheer pragmatism, not a desire to burst anyone's bubble. I simply wanted to bring them all down to earth gently before the inevitable April snowstorm sent them all to their beds in misery. Of course we got that storm (rain that turned to hail, that turned to snow, that turned back to rain and froze overnight). Somewhere in there we lost power for thirteen hours and the kids in the area got two consecutive snow days in April - which doesn't happen very darned often, even though Spring messes with us plenty.
But now (knock wood!) the errant winter temperatures are all behind us. Two days ago I put on sandals for the first time and marveled that I'd worn boots just a week earlier. Yesterday I worked in the yard for an hour. The grass is finally looking greener, and before long tulips will be in bloom. Spring comes and goes in a flash, but it sure is pretty while it lasts.
Hey, I've seen snow on Mother's Day...or even Victoria Day. Whatever happens, I'm determined to keep on feeling spring-ish. Gonna try to keep some spring in my step no matter what...
Once Spring finally springs, the heart sings - and I'm not about to stop singing mid-ditty.
"Why?" my husband asked - "You know it's going to melt in a day or two anyhow, right?"
"Not soon enough!" I replied. "I refuse to step out my back door onto ice for one more day!"
For the first time in my life I could relate to the middle-aged people I'd always laughed at - the ones who frantically shovel their driveway snow out onto a sunny patch of the road.
It was time for Spring to spring, doggone it!
Canadians get impatient when winter outstays its welcome. About 3% of us suffer from SAD, and just want the cold days to end. The rest of us just get mad. I get antsy when the seasons refuse to align themselves with the neat divisions on the calendar. Back in April of 2010 I penned this untitled ode:
On a frosty Friday morning
when the rain has turned to snow
I have brain freeze and I'm foggy
and my wheels are moving slow.
I'm affected by this weather -
Silly? Yes - but it is true.
I've invited in the grey sky
and it's left me feeling blue.
It has been a rough Spring - a late Spring. An almost non-existent Spring. A Spring that is finally making an appearance now that it's half over. Whenever we have snow in April I tell myself it's an anomaly. Apparently I live in denial when it comes to the crazy seasonal temperature fluctuations that exist in my part of the world.
Still, I know it could be worse.
"Welcome to _______ (insert Northern Ontario city/town of your choice here) where we have ten months of winter and two months of bad ski-dooing!"
Spring in Sault Ste. Marie, where I grew up, was all over the board. Some years we were still ice-skating over our March break, and other years we were riding bicycles in Spring jackets. I always knew the so called season of rejuvenation was fickle in Northern Ontario, but as time goes on it seems that she appears in her own time, and on her own terms, wherever I live.
My attitude toward Spring's arrival is about as capricious as she is. Some years I can't wait for Winter to be gone, and other years I'm capable of amazing forbearance. Apparently 2014 found me feeling more upbeat about Spring's arrival than I'd been four years earlier:
Spring Hopes Eternal
The sky was blue, the sun shone bright
though frigid was the day -
I wore my winter coat and boots
but felt Spring anyway.
Old Winter blew tenaciously;
I didn't really care.
Spring wasn't in the bitter wind,
but she was in the air!
I tromped through mud, I heard a bird -
an optimistic sound!
Snow blanketed the frozen soil,
but Spring was all around.
The calendar announcing Spring
was premature - that's clear.
Perhaps Spring isn't quite here yet -
but I can feel her near!
(Sharon Flood Kasenberg, March 23, 2014)
I'm learning that Spring, like anything else, is what we make it. I try not to let the weather upset me too much, but my efforts to remain stoic aren't always successful. Unlike many around me I try not to rush her arrival. This year we got two weeks of warm weather in February, and I was uneasy the whole time. Everywhere around me I saw people getting excited - overly hopeful that winter days were over and warmer days were here to stay. I felt like the lone doomsayer.
"We're going to pay for this in April!" I'd tell people. "Mother Nature has a sick sense of humour."
And (of course) they'd tell me not to be pessimistic. But truly my warnings stemmed from sheer pragmatism, not a desire to burst anyone's bubble. I simply wanted to bring them all down to earth gently before the inevitable April snowstorm sent them all to their beds in misery. Of course we got that storm (rain that turned to hail, that turned to snow, that turned back to rain and froze overnight). Somewhere in there we lost power for thirteen hours and the kids in the area got two consecutive snow days in April - which doesn't happen very darned often, even though Spring messes with us plenty.
But now (knock wood!) the errant winter temperatures are all behind us. Two days ago I put on sandals for the first time and marveled that I'd worn boots just a week earlier. Yesterday I worked in the yard for an hour. The grass is finally looking greener, and before long tulips will be in bloom. Spring comes and goes in a flash, but it sure is pretty while it lasts.
Hey, I've seen snow on Mother's Day...or even Victoria Day. Whatever happens, I'm determined to keep on feeling spring-ish. Gonna try to keep some spring in my step no matter what...
Once Spring finally springs, the heart sings - and I'm not about to stop singing mid-ditty.
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