Where the Walls are Soft…

Matthew Mansel Falls
1920-2008

…I kissed
him
goodbye, and
said “I love you,”…From the time I moved out on my own, right up until my parents moved into the first retirement home, I received a unique gift from them at the end of every summer: enough vacuum-sealed fillets of whitefish to last until the next delivery a year later. 22 annual deliveries, by my calculation. That’s a lotta fish.

My dad raised kids, and vegetable gardens, and sunflowers, and honeybees. Sometimes he raised the roof. He could raise hell, too, when he wanted to.

He wasn’t the kind of guy who said “I love you.” I used to wonder how he proposed to my mother, without saying those three little words, because I’d never heard him utter them, not to her, nor to any of us kids, nor to my daughter. When we said “I love you,” to him, he would reply, “Okay. Goodbye, then,” or, “Here, I’ll get Maude (my mother) on the phone.” He never said it, but we always knew, mind you.

He’s been in and out of hospital for several years, now. The first time that we all knew he was dying, and all the kids came home, I was sitting beside his bed with Un-Brother Ken. Dad was all talked out for the time being, and we sat there in silence for a long time, when he suddenly said, out of the blue, “I’m not afraid.”

I don’t know if he was talking to me, or my brother, or maybe it was himself. After a bit, Ken answered him, saying something to the effect of that being a good thing, then. I couldn’t say anything, myself. I was certain it was my last visit with him, but glad, nonetheless, that he was okay with… It. That day, when I left the hospital, I kissed my dad goodbye, and said, “I love you.”

“Okay - are you taking the bus home?” was how he replied. I think he meant “I love you,” though.

And he got better.

Several hospital incarcerations later, as my mother kissed him goodbye, she said “I love you.” I’d never heard her say that to him before, although she says it to me all the time. I remember thinking then that maybe my mom knew she would never get another chance to say it to him.

And he didn’t hear her - his hearing aids were in the bedside table. So, when she was halfway to the door, he called, “What was that…?” And my mom giggled a little, and called back a little louder, “I just said ‘I love you.’”

“What’s that? I can’t hear you.”

And so, from the doorway, laughing, my mother yelled at him.

“I said, ‘I LOVE YOU!’”

And they both laughed. And then he said it back. Out loud. I heard him. And I knew I’d never see him alive again.

But he got better.

The next time he was dying in hospital, I kissed him goodbye, and said “I love you,” as usual.

And he squeezed my hand, kissed me back, and said, “I love you, too.” Out loud. I heard him. And I knew I’d never hear that again, but that was okay, because he’d actually said what I’d always known anyway, and I knew that he knew that he’d never see me again, and that’s why he said it, finally, just in case I was wondering, maybe…

But he got better.

We’ve had many more chances to talk since then, and we’ve made the most of it. I’ve gotten a lot of wonderful bloggable stories of his life, and those that haven’t been told here yet, will be in future, I promise that. My dad was a great storyteller.

We talked, too, of what it was like to be near the end. He was pleased with his life. He’d done almost everything he’d wanted to do (”…and some things I didn’t know I wanted to do, but I did them anyway,”), and he didn’t have any regrets that he could think of.

I’m comforted to know that near the end of things, my dad was able to look back on it all, and feel content that he’d had a full life. And that he wasn’t afraid. But I think it’s also important to remember that from his standpoint, “It sure went fast.” I imagine, if we all live to be 87, we’ll feel the same. So, if we want to do something, we’d better get at it. I would hate to look back and wish for things to be different.

The last time I saw him, in a different hospital, eating a piece of pie, with a non-cooperative, trembling hand, I realized he might never get any more pie. He wasn’t supposed to have this piece of pie, but there comes a time when restrictive diets just don’t matter anymore, do they?

The best meals for my dad always ended with a piece of pie, something he would complain about to my mother, if she didn’t provide it. He was known to say to company around the dinner table, “Gee, I’m awful glad you’ve come for supper. If you hadn’t, I wouldn’t have got any pie.”

And here he was, eating what might be the last piece of pie in his nearly 88 years, and his damned hand couldn’t catch it on the spoon. So I tried to help, as best I could, guiding his hand to scoop it up, and he said what I was certain would be his final words to me, knowing, I imagine, that we would never get the chance to speak again.

“Hey, you. Quit tryin’ to steal my pie.”

As last words go, they were good ones - if you knew my dad.

But he got better. Sort of. He said many more things to me, but right now, I can’t remember any of them.

He had a few more set backs, but he did get out of hospital, and he did get more pie. He never quite got back up to himself again, though.

And this morning, at 5:15, My Brother the Trespasser called to tell me he’d gone in his sleep. I imagine his last words would have been to my mother: “Goodnight, then…”

If I could have been there when Dad breathed his last, I like to think I’d have had the nerve to say, as my goodbye to him, “So long, and thanks for all the fish.” It would have been a way to let him know I appreciated everything he’d done for me over the years - which was a helluva lot. More than I deserved.

It would have made him laugh, too, even though he’d never seen the Hitchhiker movie, nor would he have read the book, or ever even heard of Douglas Adams. But he’d have remembered all that whitefish, and he would have laughed, I know. And to go out laughing would have been just his style.

Instead, he made me laugh, with “Quit tryin’ to steal my pie.”

I think, though, that what he meant was, “I love you.”

Random Song for the Day: “Decided to Break It” - Mariana’s Trench

“Bleed”
Taken November 15, 2007 with Canon PowerShot A550

…rumour has
it,
the new
owner wants to
gut the
interior and remodel,
and plans on giving
all the tenants notice.I’m feeling a little raw, lately. There are a lot of changes being thrust upon me, and, as you all well know, I don’t deal with change ummm… much.

I’m not having any luck becoming accustomed to the schedule at the new J.O.B., which kind of throws everything else out of whack as far as my family life is concerned. As well, my kid is about to graduate from… what should I call it…? Pre-high-school…? Grade 8, anyway. And another “landmark of Motherhood” being reached is difficult for me.

It’s an exciting time for her, though, because the graduation process is filled with trips, and camping, and dinners, and formal gowns, and what-all and what-not and God help me if any more gets added, because it all costs a frightening amount.

That makes it the “wrong” kind of excitement for me, because the J.O.B. wage is crap, and the schedule does not allow for a supplemental part-time J.O.B. (I never know from one week to the next what my shifts are). My small and hard-fought-for nest egg has been punctured in several places long before I’ve built it back up to where it should be, and the funds are leaking out in an alarming manner.

Other, scarier things loom ahead. The building I live in, which has been for sale for well over a decade, has finally got a serious offer. Good for Ruby - she’ll finally be quit of the huge headache the maintenance on the place has become for her.

Not so good news for me and the kid, as, rumour has it, the new owner wants to gut the interior and remodel, and plans on giving all the tenants notice. I don’t have a move built into the budget anymore, unfortunately, so I’m torn between hoping Ruby gets it sold, for her sake, and praying the guy changes his mind, for mine. Time will tell, I guess, and I’m trying to take my mother’s old saying to heart: “It’ll all work out.”

And I’m about to add another bill to the mess with the acquisition of The FlyMobile, which has now become a necessity if I ever want to see my parents.

They have moved back to Teeny-Tiny Town, where I was born and raised, the place they spent the first 50 years of their married life, to a facility that offers my father the 24-hour care he now requires, and allows them to stay together.

This was a good move for my mom and dad: they know everybody there already, having worked with them, and lived near them, and socialized with them since 1947. It’s also good because my sister, “Tootie”, is a nurse in the hospital that is housed in the same structure. She can see them everyday, without having to drive an hour each way and still manage the swing shift.

It kind of sucks for me and Ky, though, unless I can handle the payments on the minivan, which start in July. Money’s easy to get, though, right? It’ll all work out. Somehow. I hope.

Having a vehicle will allow us to visit once a week, like we’re used to doing. I’ll just have to spend more time on the stepper, which is currently gathering dust in my closet, to make up for the lack of weekly Walk-About to the other side of town and back. Now that I have an ass, I don’t want it to get flabby, do I?

We’ve driven down twice now, thanks to the generosity of The Fly-Girl, who has me drop her off across “the ditch” in Michigan and hands me the keys. “I’ve filled up the tank,” says she. “Go visit your mom and dad.” What would I do without her?

The Fly-Mobile is fair on gas, thankfully, and if the prices ever drop, I should be okay, assuming there are no more surprise grad fees dropped on me that I’ll have to suck out of the “transportation” category of the budget.

But, we’re carrying on with the carrying on… getting ready for Ky’s grad…. arguing over which photo to pick from the proofs…. pretending there’s nothing but happy, happy on the horizon, because what else can we do, really?

When, really, graduation for Ky may be a bust… Dad had a heart attack on Friday, and another on Sunday morning. He’s wiped on morphine and often confused, but for the most part, he’s holding his own. We’ve been down this road before….

Un-Brother Ken has come home, and Big Sis will come up from Southern Ontario after her own graduation on Wednesday. We keep our fingers crossed, but our hearts are in our throats. There’s that “no resuscitation” order as per Dad’s wishes, after all. Again, good for him - it’s the way he wants it to play out - but I can’t help but feel selfish and wish they’d ignore/forget about/pretend they don’t see the yellow wristband on his arm, and just fix him, dammit!

I think he’s winding down, though.

Random Song for the Day: “Push It” - Garbage

Too brain-tired to do anything but click the pics…. click the pics…. click the pics….

Random Song for the Day: “I Hate Everything About You” - 3 Days Grace

Dead on a Dare

If looks
could
kill, I’d
be an outline
on the
pavement, too….So, I did it, Suzi. I “killed” The Hummingbird, and I drew a chalk outline around the body.

The picture didn’t turn out as well as I’d hoped - probably drawing in the mush and the muck of a Canuckian sidewalk in winter had something to do with that, but having a concerned citizen stop her car in the middle of the intersection to ask if The Hummingbird was okay while I was in the midst of the dirty deed didn’t help much, either.

After having to explain that it was all an “Internet Joke” before the lady would leave, I got nervous, which is why I drew around The Hummingbird’s hood instead of taking my time and drawing a more “headish” shape. I took a fast and dirty shot with the camera, and then felt the need to scramble around in an attempt to hide the evidence, in case Concerned Citizen decided to call the cops on me, anyway.

And now there’s the nagging thought that if a murder had really taken place on my doorstep, nobody would have bothered to stop and ask questions…

The Hummingbird took it all surprisingly well, embarrassing as the whole thing was, as evidenced by the next picture.

If looks could kill, I’d be an outline on the pavement, too….

PS - This is not the kind of thing I normally “go for” online, but I had to this time. And if Snopes.com says it’s on the up-and-up, well, I’m inclined to believe them… Please, click here… What’s 4 minutes out of your day…?

Not-So-Random Song for the Day: “What Kind of World Do You Want?” - Five for Fighting

“Sunflower 3″
Taken August 28, 2005, with HP PhotoSmart R607

For the
record,
Ky has
never claimed to
be a vampire.David McMahon wants to know:

Short Answer? Christ, I hope not.

But, my kid seems to have some creepy abilities that make me wonder about “powers” that I don’t like to think about, including nightmares about losing Grampa the night before we got the call that he was taken to hospital recently.

And then there’s the little “TV Repair-by-Mind-Control” trick. Our ancient console television’s picture tube is slowly dying. When the thing is powered on for awhile, the picture squishes itself down, bits at a time, ’til we’re looking at an inch-high strip of colour in the middle of a black screen. For awhile, turning it off for about ten minutes would solve the problem (temporarily), but I knew I was looking at buying a new TV just when I was getting the Visa paid down again, finally. Damn.

Then, the other day, when I was swearing over the non-picture again, Ky said, “Wait for a commercial before you turn it off.”

I reminded her that the picture tube was going. It didn’t matter what was on the screen when we turned it off, the problem was with the parts, not the signal. She replied that that may very well be so, but if I waited for a commercial before turning it off, the picture would be fine the next time I turned the set on, and would stay fine until I was ready to turn it off again.

Now, I know enough about electronics to know that this is not possible. I told her so. She agreed with me, but insisted it worked.

I reminded her that (given her “trouble-shooting” solution were possible) just because this station was running a commercial, the chances that all the stations would be running commercials at the same time was probably nil. And besides, THE PICTURE TUBE IS DYING, DAMN IT. Again, she agreed with me, at the same time insisting that her solution, impossible as it sounds, works.

And it does. It shouldn’t, but it does.

If I turn the TV off in the middle of a program, it will screw up when I want to watch it again later, but as long as I remember to wait for the next commercial before turning it off, even for a minute or two, it behaves perfectly. For hours. No matter how many times I change the channel. Thankfully, the little Mind-Bender does not need to be home/awake for it to work, or I would always be calling her/shaking her and aiming the cell phone/her tired little face at the television.

Somebody please come up with a reasonable explanation for this. If you can’t do so, I’m going to have to let her trouble-shoot the fridge light that won’t light, and the oven element that won’t “element”. I’m reminded (again, creepily) that if not for the miracle of modern medicine, my daughter would have been born in the caul.

clipped from en.wikipedia.org

One popular legend went that a caulbearer would be able to see the future or have dreams that come to pass.

Negative associations with the birth caul are rare, but in several European countries a child being born with a caul was a sign that the child may become a vampire.

For the record, Ky has never claimed to be a vampire. But from the ages of 4 through about 8 she insisted her “real” mother was a werewolf. Then she would pat my hand and apologize for hurting my feelings by reminding me that she wasn’t really “mine”.

Maybe she’s a changeling…

Random Song for the Day: “Ol’ 55″ - The Eagles

“Who Sends a Box of Sand from the Old Country?!”

“Mock my
vords,
dey vill
all haff flot
feets in
der ult aitches.”Just in time for Hallowe’en, Ruby came out with a never-before-told story. It’s a little bit comedy. It’s a little bit horror. Ruby leans toward the comedy in a really big way, for some reason. Me, I think I’m still wearing a creepy-feeling expression on my face. I don’t know if it’s the story that bothers me so much, or if it’s that Ruby still finds it so damned funny. Anyway…

In honour of the Horrifying Holiday, I’m going to tell this one myself. Ruby laughed all the way through it - I swear I kept waiting for the punch-line, and when it came…. well. Let’s just say I’m gonna tell this one myself, and leave it at that. And Ruby, by the way, swears it’s a true story, and has made me promise to change the names and the type of business being run, in case relatives of long dead proprietors happen upon my blog somehow (“I don’t trust that Internet!”) and take offense.

So, I’ve changed their names to something nondescript, and instead of running a [EDITED BECAUSE I'M AFRAID OF MY LANDLADY] store, they have become Soup Mongers. I’ve even given them a fake accent, phonetically spelled, which you may have to read out loud to understand. Sorry. I couldn’t resist.

When Mr. and Mrs. Smith came to Canada from the Old Country, they did everything they could to fit in and prosper. They did manage to prosper, after a fashion, but the “fitting in” might have only happened up to a point. Canadians being Canadian, no one would be so rude as to give the new people the impression that they were anything but exactly what they felt they were: just like everybody else.

There were oddities about them, though, that they just couldn’t see in themselves. One was the name they chose, believing their own was too unwieldy for the English palate. “Smith” was generic enough, but it didn’t once occur to them that their accent gave them away the second they spoke. They swore to speak only English in this new country, even to each other, and after a time, the Smiths managed a fair grasp of the language, but the accent, if anything, grew thicker with the passing years.

Mr. Smith was a shoemaker, by trade, but was dismayed to discover that Canadians in the ’70’s in the backwoods little berg along the highway had a penchant for wearing running shoes. Everywhere. Everybody was on some new health kick, known as “jogging”. Even the mayor jogged to work in the mornings. It soon became apparent that the Smiths could not get by repairing shoes.

“Schneakas,” Mr. Smith would snort in disgust. “Mock my vords, dey vill all haff flot feets in der ult aitches.”

Mrs. Smith never worried, however. She knew they would get by. They always had. So, she would pat her husband’s head as she set a bowl of soup in front of him, and say, “Don vorry. It vill ull vork out. It ulveys duss.”

And Mr. Smith would eat the soup, and he would feel better, because his wife made the best soup in the world. The whole town thought so, too, and the Smiths were invited to every Potluck ever held, for that very reason.

It wasn’t long before Mrs. Smith was convinced that they should turn the store-front they lived in back of into a lunch counter establishment. Mr. Smith agreed, believing he’d lucked into early retirement, little knowing that he was going to be working harder than he ever had before, waiting tables and washing dishes all day long.

The Lunch Counter, which is what they named the place (pronounced “Loonch Conter” in Smith-speak), was an instant success, and Mrs. Smith ran it like a boarding house. There was no menu; customers ate what was put in front of them, and for awhile, the repertoire didn’t change much. No one complained, though. The soups were delectable, and no one had ever eaten better anywhere else.

“Vy you don mack [UNPRONOUNCEABLE] soop?” Mr. Smith asked one day.

“Day don haff [UNPRONOUNCEABLE] spess in dis contry, das vy,” Mrs. Smith replied. She thought she would write home to the Old Country, and ask her sister Klara to send her the spices she needed. For reasons Mrs. Smith couldn’t fathom, spices she needed for her best soup recipes were not available in Canada.

Klara was happy to oblige, and once or twice a month, a small package wrapped in brown paper, and addressed in “foreign-looking” bold handwriting would be reverently passed among the staff of the post office. They would hold it by turns, sniffing at it, all wondering what the mysterious spice inside might be, and what kind of soup it would become a part of.

One day, Mr. Smith brought home a package that confused him.

“Klara is okay, you tink?” he asked his wife, setting the package on the kitchen table. Mrs. Smith looked up from stirring her soup, worried.

“Yah, I tink,” she replied. “Vy you usk me dis?”

“Look da pockage. Klara don write dis,” he said, pointing to the mailing label. He was right, Mrs. Smith agreed; that was not Klara’s familiar handwriting. A closer inspection showed that the package was addressed to Mr. Smith rather than his wife, which made it that much more confusing. There was no return address.

Mr. Smith opened the package to reveal a bland-looking spice. There was no letter, no note, no indication inside as to who might have sent it, or what it was. Just the spice.

“Vat it is?” asked Mr. Smith. Mrs. Smith lifted the package, and sniffed it.

“I don know,” she said. “Don smell lack nuttin.” She dampened her finger, dipped up a bit of the spice and tasted it. She furrowed her brow.

“Vell?” said Mr. Smith. Mrs. Smith couldn’t place the taste at all.

“I tink mebbe it gotta cook. Den ve find out vat is it. I mack sumtin new!” Excited, Mrs. Smith began right away. When the water in a large kettle began to boil, she tossed in some vegetables, some noodles, and a tablespoon of the mysterious spice from the Old Country. When the soup had been simmering for an hour, she tasted it.

“Vell?” asked Mr. Smith. Mrs. Smith shook her head.

“Don tast lack nuttin,” she said, disappointed. “Mebbe I gotta need more.” She scooped a half-cup of the powder into the pot and stirred it up. She let it simmer a little longer, but it still didn’t taste like anything new to her. She had Mr. Smith try it, and he agreed. It was Vegetable Soup and nothing more.

Exasperated, Mrs. Smith poured the last of the spice into the soup and stirred it around. There were people to feed, and the Potato-Leek Soup was nearly gone. This “Just Vegetable Soup” would have to do.

Her customers accepted the soup, and enjoyed it, many commenting that it was the best vegetable soup they had ever eaten.

“Dat’s ult family recipe from da Ult Contry,” Mrs. Smith said, as usual. “Big seckret.” She would never admit that it was a secret to her, as well. She would have to write to Klara and find out what the spice was, and why it didn’t taste like much of anything at all.

Over the business of the next few days, though, both Mr. and Mrs. Smith forgot about the mysterious spice completely. In fact, they didn’t think of it again until a letter arrived for Mr. Smith, addressed in the same unfamiliar handwriting as the strange package had been. He opened the envelope.

“Who rite dat?” inquired Mrs. Smith, stirring the latest concoction at the stove.

“Is from my cussin in Ult Contry,” Mr. Smith said, glancing at the bottom of the letter.

“Red to me vile I cookin,” she asked, and Mr. Smith complied, reading slowly, translating the language haltingly into English as he read.

“Hullo from hom. Ve hop you iss bote okay. Ve send sad noose dat grundmadder iss not vit uss now, but she usk uss to send loff to you bote before she die, and say she ulveys vish she go to Canada to see beautiful new contry and to see you vun last time. So ve send you ushes of grundmadder dat she be vit you vonce more.”

Now, obviously, these people didn’t feed “Grandmother Soup” to the whole town - I made up the business the “Smiths” were in, after all, along with the wicked accent, but Ruby swears on her life that these people really made soup with the ashes. The whole box. And that they didn’t find out until weeks later, when the long-delayed letter arrived, what the “spice” really was. And she laughs hysterically when she says “Grandmother Soup”.

Random Song for the Day: “How to Save a Life” - The Fray

“Rainflower”
Taken October 19, 2007 with Canon PowerShot A550

Things are a little funky around here at the moment. A few things are going on that I don’t have words for yet. I’m trying to keep it all together here, and for the most part, I think I’m doing okay.

I may be abandoning the blog for a bit… and then again, I may not; I really don’t know just yet because, again, I don’t have words. If a sabbatical is in the making, I doubt it would be for very long anyway… I have plans. And I’m going to want to tell somebody about them. You’re it, Internet.

…and David McMahon wants to know: “Have you ever Googled yourself?” My answer is, of course, “Of course! All the time - I’m a BLOGGER!”

Random Song for the Day: “Somewhere a Clock is Ticking” - Snow Patrol

“Off Center”
Taken October 19, 2007 with Canon PowerShot A550

I found this on ePifFunnies today, and it struck a chord.

Numbering the alphabet, A through Z, 1 through 26, we can calculate that, to complete a task, KNOWLEDGE gets a 96 in importance and CAPABILITY gets a 98, but ATTITUDE gets…100!

Contributed by Judy Kent of Omaha, Nebraska, who is her six children’s teacher at home and the wife of a minister.

On the other hand, it also made me wonder how a minister’s wife managed to amalgamate Numerology and an organized religion without spontaneous self-combustion occurring…

Random Song for the Day: “I Sat on an Ant Hill and Now Red Ant” - The Wild Turkeys