Kleenex

(This is Day One of a Project called "Five Days of Creative Recovery." It is meant as an antidote to Deep Unyielding Depression and various Sources Of Grief. For the next five days, I will do my best to post something creative. Out of words or whatever is possible. Feel free to join me however you'd like!)

Kleenex (working title)

When I was seventeen years old, my father and I flew to Winnipeg, Manitoba to say goodbye to my grandmother before she died. My grandmother was in her late eighties, and I think she had pneumonia.  I know she had nine children, two of them twins, one of them born almost dead. Her husband, Julias had died a good half decade earlier. When he died, I’d sewed Grandma a simple cloth bag out of quilted patchwork. She’d used it to keep her Kleenexes. At one point, my grandmother had insisted on starching my grandfather’s cloth diapers. And then somehow, she’d made the switch from handkerchiefs to Kleenex. Is that what death does to you?

As with most nursing homes, the hallways of Fred Douglas Lodge smelled of urine and antiseptic cleaning supplies. Crowds of half-asleep people in wheelchairs gathered around a large t.v. that played Singing in the Rain. And some poor man in the Lazy Boy cried out for Jesus.

Oh mighty Lord! Help me!

My grandmother spent most of her time in her room. She had a meticulous soap opera schedule to keep up with. When my father and I arrived, the t.v. was on mute. Grandma was lying in bed, a few squares of Kleenex arranged across her chest. We both kissed her and then I helped myself to stale bridge mix. She nodded as I ate. Since we lived so far away, whenever we went to Winnipeg, my father dedicated most of his time to sitting with my grandmother. To make up for all the months he wasn’t there. All his other siblings came at least once a week. If ever anyone missed a visit, Grandma would not be impressed.

Every time I visited Grandma, I felt quite guilty because I had long ago lapsed as her personal correspondent. Between the ages of eight and ten, I’d devoted myself to sending my grandparents letters every single day.

Dear Grandma and Grandpa, How are you? I am fine.

Then I’d go on and on about my violin lessons, swim meets and sleepovers. Back then I was quite a comedian and would often include a few good jokes.

What goes ha ha ha, plop?

Somebody laughing their head off.

Ha. Plop. I feel like I have not said the word “plop” in quite some time.

I used to decorate the envelopes with Mr. Sketch Smelly markers. Then I got busy with my extensive academic, musical and athletic ambitions. The letters simply stopped.

They were the joy of my grandparents’ lives, and then they were over.

“What happened to all the beautiful letters you used to write?” my grandmother sobbed one summer as I kissed her goodbye. Thirteen years old, and now I was a big disappointment. Grandma also complained that my hair wasn’t as lovely and curly as it used to be. So many burdens.

I think I am eleven here. Still sporting the curls, as I try desperately to be photogenic.

But as people are dying, you are supposed to get over such things. On her death bed, every time my grandma had to blow her nose, she ripped off a tiny square of Kleenex. Instead of using the whole thing, she would separate the two-ply pieces in half and then rip them into tiny squares. Four squares for each flimsy half. Days to live and Kleenex still seemed worth saving.

I remember staring at the ripped up Kleenexes. In my seventeen year old head, I thought, “Wow. Life is so tragic. So profound.” I was super deep and wise. Perhaps not, but I was definitely sincere. I felt bewildered that all the people at Fred Douglas Lodge would die, and eventually everyone would forget that they’d bothered to squander Kleenexes all the way to the end. I had this clear thought, that writing was the only real chance for redemption. Otherwise what was the point.

My grandmother died the weekend after we left. It was Easter Sunday. Nobody ever told me whether or not during her final days, she’d branched out and let herself splurge on the whole piece of Kleenex.

The End.

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Yours Til Ekam Inhales

It is hilarious that I wrote a book called, “I Let Go.” In truth I am rather terrible at letting go of most things. These days, writing has been very difficult. When I was eight and nine years old, this never happened. Without an alarm, I used to wake up every morning at exactly 6:30. If the long hand on my Mickey Mouse watch had somehow crept to 6:35, I would be devastated. Life would only be bearable if I woke up at 6:30. But regardless of when I made it out of bed, as soon as I was up, I would walk the dog to the mailbox, where I would mail the letter I had written to my grandparents the morning before. When I got home, I would eat cooked rolled oats slothered in plain yogurt and heaps of brown sugar. Then I would write a brand new letter. Every single day.

My letters always began with,

Dear Grandma and Grandpa, How are you? I am fine. 

My grandparents lived far away in Manitoba. They seemed incredibly ancient. White haired and wrinkled, they spent their days sitting in reclining lazy boy chairs that had remote controls. I think my letter routine began after my grandmother had a stroke. Her name was Olga and she was in her early eighties. My grandfather`s name was Julius and he was almost ninety.

“It would be nice if you sent Grandma and Grandpa a card or something,” my dad mentioned to me one day.

Never one for moderation, I took up a dedicated daily practice of sending my grandparents all my interesting news .  I told them which songs I was learning on the violin (Variations A, B, C, and D of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, Bach`s Minuet in G, Long Long Ago), how many increments of twenty minutes of practice I had completed that week (at least three per day), and how many beautiful shiny stickers this earned me (several). I told them how many lengths I had done at swim practice, and how this converted into kilometers and miles. Every time I had a swim meet, I would tell them about the ribbons I'd won and how much I`d improved on my old times.  Back then, I was quite a big success. That said, in grade five, I didn`t get a main part in the Christmas concert.

December 21, 1994
Dear Grandma and Grandpa,

Hi! How are you? I am fine. I can’t believe it’s almost Christmas! We had a Christmas concert yesterday. I had to be a shepherd. I hated wearing my costume because it was to hot. I wore Dad’s bath robe with a towel on my head.

I remember that bath robe. It was a brown, pukey colour.

Quite often I liked to include jokes.

Why did the thermometer go to university?

Because he wanted to earn his degrees.

What goes Ha! Ha! Ha! Plop!?

Somebody laughing his head off!

Rather humorous. Around the middle of grade five, my letters tapered off. I became very busy maintaining my impeccable reputation in academics, swimming and violin.

April 30, 1995
Dear Grandma and Grandpa,

It’s been a long time! Aunt Barbra gave me this writing paper... Our class is going to have a science fair. I did my project on what music is best for plants (vacuum cleaners).

I liked to sign my letters, “Yours til” followed by something interesting.

Some examples were:

“Yours til the dew drops,”

“Yours til the banana splits, ”and

“Yours til the jelly rolls.”

And/or I would write, “Gotta go!” in large letters, always ending with an exclamation mark.

Mostly my endings came out of nowhere, or they occurred because I was running out of space on the paper. I guess I have never been particularly excellent at structure. Out of the letters I have, this is my favourite ending,

Oh yah the last letter I wrote at night. That’s why I said, “Yours til I fall asleep.

Yours til the bubble pops,

Erica S.

I always felt guilty for not keeping up my faithful correspondence. One summer when I was thirteen or fourteen, my grandma burst into tears when we said good-bye.  "What happened to those wonderful letters you used to write?" she cried. This made me feel terrible for a long time. Still, it was quite a delight to stumble over these the other day. Hopefully, I will feel the same way in nineteen years when I look back on this blog, and reminisce about my menstrual blood, my kale phone, and my spiritual pants.  

Big love to everyone's ten year old self. 

Gotta Go!

Yours til Ekam Inhales,

Erica.

I used my smelly Mr. Sketch markers to decorate the envelopes with beautiful designs and pictures. My artistic skills seemed moderately promising at the time; however, they haven’t improved much. 

  

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Sacred Fire

Vile shrieks emerged from the kitchen. Incomprehensible animal sounds of deep guttural rage.  Everyone seated in my grandmother’s sun room tensed up.  What was that noise?

My mother and her stepfather were fighting about the Boxing Day salmon.  Apparently Howard had taken it out of the oven and messed with the tin foil as he was inspecting its readiness.  In the process, he had destroyed the salmon’s meticulous aesthetic presentation, which had caused my mother exceeding distress.

In the sun room we were playing a game called “Questions,” a conversation starter for dinner parties and other awkward situations.  My Grandma had just read the question, “Would you rather be remembered for your accomplishments or for your character?”

The explosive bellows from the kitchen died down and my mother came to join us in the sun room, a little red in the face and tight in the shoulders.  She huffed and puffed ever so slightly.

 “What’s the question?” she asked.

 My grandmother repeated it.

 Being remembered for character is not always a good thing,” she said.   

 “I agree,” said Robbie, my boyfriend at the time.  I used to call him the Boatman because I met him on a boat. “I would like to be remembered by my accomplishments."  His statement caused some scandal in the sun room.  How shallow and superficial, some of the company was thinking.  But the Boatman already has excellent character and so it is natural that he would wish to aspire to something else.

“Well,” said my grandma.  “I can see that.  I hardly got anything done in my life.  In my next life, I’d like to accomplish more,”   Of course this led to great objection in the sun room.  And tears.  First my sister started, then my grandmother and my mother joined in.  Tears on this side of the family are contagious.   All this emotion inspired my mother to tell us all about her recent singing lessons.

“So I went to see this woman and she gave me all these scales and breathing lessons.  She said I didn’t breathe right so I did her exercises every day. I worked really hard.  Then one week, my soloist at the church had to go away so I didn’t have anyone to do the introit.  So I brought the introit to the singing lesson.  It was only a few bars long.  I’d practiced it a bit before, breathing deeply of course.  And at the lesson, I sang it for my teacher who didn’t smile once through the whole thing.  When I was done, she just sat there.  Finally she said, ‘Well, maybe in a couple of years, you’d be ready to perform it.’”

Now my mother was crying and soon the other women in the family would join in.  No one in the Boatman’s family cries at family dinner and so this is always an interesting experience for him.  My mother wasn’t finished her story.  She continued on a mile-a-minute.

“I just felt so humiliated.  I mean, what a thing for a teacher to say to a student.  For a four-bar introit at a church service in Perth Ontario! And she was charging like 75 bucks a lesson!”

My mother went on to say that she never went back to the teacher.  But the story still wasn’t over.  The next day one of her 12-year-old piano students came to her.   The elementary school talent show was the following day and she wanted to accompany herself singing “Knock, knock knockin’ on Heaven’s Door,” by Bob Dylan.  

She went through the song once and it was horrendous.  My mother almost told her it was a lost cause, but then she remembered her traumatizing singing teacher and was determined to coach her student through the song.  She spent a whole hour labouring through the song with her student until she finally sounded good enough for the Stewart School Talent Show. By the end of the story, my mother was in tears again.

“You know, if you’ve got a song, you’ve gotta sing it.”

Now the salmon was ready and my mother returned to the kitchen.  More guttural animal rage and screaming.  This time, Howard was insisting on serving the salmon that had bones in it. The fury was astounding.  After serving everyone’s plate, my mother sat down at the table.  This time, she fumed and huffed and puffed, visibly and audibly.

At the end of the supper, my grandmother and sister had planned something delightful that was guaranteed to raise everyone’s spirits.  Bananas Flambé.

Banana’s flambé, or fried bananas is the stuff of legends in our family.  When my sister Taes was three years old, she went to visit my grandmother in her house in New Jersey.  One day, Grandma told Taes that they were going to a very special restaurant where they could have a very special dessert called Fried Bananas.  So three year old Taes was tremendously excited.  She rushed through her dinner in anxious anticipation of the upcoming dessert. The waitress came with the dessert menu and Taes placed her order.  But alas, the waitress returned with very bad news.  The bananas weren’t ripe enough.  Taes screamed and wailed and made a huge scene, somewhat comparable to the salmon rage.  Rather embarrassed, my grandmother dragged her out of the restaurant.  The next day, Taes called Grandma into the living room where she was watching Sesame Street.  As fate would have it, Big Bird was making Fried Bananas.  My grandmother wrote the recipe down, and our family has been enjoying the delicacy ever since. So on this tense and brawling Boxing Day evening, the whole family gathered around the stove to watch the process.  Taes poured the vodka onto the simmering bananas. 

“I think maybe you need a little more,” said Grandma.   So Taes poured a little more. “Okay, here it goes, said Grandma.  And she threw in the match.  Flames burst up from the frying pan up to the ceiling.  Grandma and Taes froze, eyes widened.

 “Oh wow,” I said.

 “Oh my God,” said my mother.

 “Throw a towel on it, Mary,” called Howard.  “Mary! Put a towel on it!” 

 “Put a lid on that please,” said the Boatman. 

 Nick, my brother-in-law caught the whole thing on camera.  (The movie is entirely delightful; however, for some reason youtube has banned it due to copyright issues. Something about the word flambé, or bananas. We're not sure...)

Probably it took us about forty seconds to find the lid.  In the end, combined with vanilla ice cream, the Bananas Flambé was one of the most delicious things I’ve ever tasted. 

The End.

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