free falling

It seems like this happens to me a lot... but I need to step away from the blog. I don't know if I'll be able to post for a while.

Struggling.

Dad is not in good health and I am suspending my job search although we are facing dire straights. I need to know what state Dad is in before I move any further. I took time away from work when Mom was dying and I fear I may be faced with another loss.

Take care of each other.

a soldier

I posted this song another lifetime ago, on my old blog. From it, a friendship with a soldier from Great Britain began.

I post it again today, in honour of my friend Julie and her quest to honour her father.
I post it for LeeAnn, my sis and for her Matt, a proud Marine.

I post it for Airman Mom... because families should never be forgotten.

I post it for Mike, my friend from across the pond and his lovely family in thanks that he has returned home from Bahrain.
I post it for Sarge Charlie, who served valiantly.

I post it for a dragon slaying Marine, I now proudly call a friend. (Yeah, I mean you, Burke!)

I post it for Hope,  my sister in mamadom... because she's a beloved friend and ever so devoted in all she does for Milsupport.



I post it for my daughter who is proud of her grandfather and prays for peace.

And I post it for my dad... and all the veterans he lives with at the Veterans Hospital.

Lest we forget...

Remembering the fallen

Lately it seems that I come out to blog on very rare occasions. It’s ironic that as my last sortie was to promote a Peace Movement for Bloggers (see last post), the one immediately following it should be a very sombre yet hopeful and celebratory post.


I am Canadian. And on this 11th day, of the 11th month at the 11th hour, I will be bowing my head and thinking back to the thousands of soldiers, heroes, who died in the service of my country. They fought for their homeland, their families, to right injustices, for the weak and defenseless and so that Peace may be returned to the world.

In 1918, on the 11th hour, of the 11th day, of the 11th month, Armistice was signed. It heralded the end of World War I, The Great War. I find it so sad that we should have enough wars to number them... and I pray my daughter and her children won’t come to know another World War.

Last year, I posted about my father and his twin brother. I was thankful my Irish-born grandmother and Greek-born grandfather didn’t have to pay the ultimate price so many parents have had to pay over the years during Man’s history.

I had spent hours looking at and touching documents and mementos from my father’s time in the army. My heart swelled with pride as my eyes swelled with tears.


I thought of the women in my family and what this would mean to them... my aunts watched their baby brothers enlist. I remember my aunt Kay telling me how protective my grandma Mary had been of Dad as a baby. And how now, so many women send their husbands and sons to the desert, not knowing if they'll come home.

If I ascend up
into Heaven
Thou art there:
If I lay down
in Hell
Thou art there!
If I take
the wings
of the morning
and dwell in
the uttermost
parts of
the sea,
even there
shall Thy hand
lead me
and Thy right
shall hold me.
-Psalm 139

During the summer of 2005, my daughter and I took a girls only road trip. We toured a good portion of Ontario, discovering a part of our country. Our last stop was to be the nation's capital for a visit to the Science Museum. We ended up staying in Ottawa a little longer than originally planned. We drove by the Parliament and saw a light show was on and so we parked he car and waked over to join people from all across Canada and many visitors from foreign lands. Chicklet stopped at the eternal flame.



We decided to stay another day and after watching an inspiring musical light show we headed back to the hotel to rest up for a trip back to Parliament during the daytime. The next morning, we walked back to a place I had visited as a child and was still in awe of.



We visited the Peace Tower and Parliament Hill, walked in the solemn quiet of the Memorial Chamber and read the names of the brave from the Books of Remembrance.


We stood in front of the altar and marveled at the detail in the carvings and at the beauty of the stained glass windows. I was humbled at the scope and magnitude of the sacrifice that the books laid out for me. So many had died... some were so very young, from all parts of my great nation. That small yet majestic room sparked in me feelings of hope, that we may finally find Peace, a Peace that would be stronger than the stone, glass and metals from which the memorial was so lovingly and expertly crafted.

“My idea is that visitors to the Memorial Chamber shall realize the sanctity of the place, the pavement whereon they stand, the nations gathered at this shrine, the tremendous sacrifice, and shall read the lettered panel below the window of the Assembly of Remembrance so that there may come home to them the exhortation – Wherefore seeing we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses let us lay aside every weight and the sin which doth so easily beset us and let us run with patience the race that is set before us. Then as a parting benediction, carved over the door, the relatives of those who gave their lives, as they leave the Chamber will read:

All’s well for over there among his peers a happy warrior sleeps.”
-John Pearson, Master Architect.

I imagined the scenes in so many kitchens across our great land throughout the years, as mothers taking a brief pause from their chore filled days, would sit at the kitchen table, wiping a tear from their eyes as they worried about their sons who were in trenches, on transports, at sea...
My grandmother was one of them, her twin baby boys in training to fight as first generation Canadians... proud first generation Canadians.

She was fortunate not to suffer the same great loss that befell Mrs Charlotte Wood of Winnipeg, who had twelve sons and was awarded five silver crosses, one for each of five of those sons (Joseph, Louis, Fred, Harry and Percy) killed in the first world war, the war to end all wars. She was Canada's first Silver Cross mother. At her funeral in 1939, the ladies of the War Widows, of which she was an honoured member, passed by her grave and each dropped a poppy on her coffin.

In our changing times, following the death of Captain Nichola Goddard (Canada's first female soldier killed in combat), the Silver Cross has now been awarded to a widower... this isn't a change I cherish. I would like to see such medals become relics, reminders of times passed.

Canadian Soldier

Do not cry for me,
For I am a Canadian soldier.
Guardian of “The True, North, strong and free”,
Ambassador of the “Red Maple Leaf”.

I know that, what I had of freedom,
All I used or knew,
Is what our father’s
Fought for us long ago.

I did not give
That freedom away or,
Have someone take it away
By force or law.

You hold in your hands
The most precious of gifts.
Freedom to love and express art.
Freedom to be who you want to be.

Freedom is a package deal.
With it comes responsibilities and consequences.
The price of freedom is eternal vigilance.
Do not make our sacrifice, one in vain.

I join God knowing,
I fought for my fellow man’s freedom.
My duty complete,
Yours to carry on in memory.

For now my mother is crying,
And criticism of our mission arises.
Question not, but always remember,
For I am a Canadian soldier.

- Sgt. M.J. Watts

Later that day, my daughter and I walked to the Tomb of The Unknown Soldier where I said a silent prayer of thanks, and where we returned a couple of years later to pay our respects during the Remembrance Day ceremonies. My daughter left a poppy on that tomb as a show of gratitude.



We stood and cheered as our veterans marched past us. Before the celebrations started, Chicklet had walked over to a group of veterans waiting for the procession to start and thanked them, shaking their hands.

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
~John McCrae, 1915

The Ode of Remembrance

They went with songs to the battle, they were young.
Straight of limb, true of eyes, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
We will remember them.
Lest we forget.

I've posted this before, and will continue to do so on Remembrance day...

I cry…

For the men and women who died, fighting for our Nation, for my freedom and the freedom of others…
For the mothers and fathers who have lost their sons and daughters in the fight for Peace…
For the men and women who have lost their soul mate…
For the children, those who are left behind… and those who shall never come to be…
For the friends who are left with only memories…
For those who have no PEACE…
For those who forget what makes the sacrifice so meaningful...
For those who miss so many important moments of everyday life because they are fighting for justice... the first step, the first tooth, the first goal, the first school play…
For my country, for we have lost so many fine Canadians…
For those who died alone... and for those who are buried so far from home...
For those who confuse their opinions on war and the respect and appreciation owed for the sacrifice of our soldiers...
For those who have lost their brothers and sisters in arms and parts of themselves...
For those who will not take the time to remember…

this little light...

Tonight, my daughter "The Chicklet" (my sunshine) will be performing in a show her theater teacher has put on. This will not be her first foray on stage, but she's excited nonetheless and so am I.

She's doing a skit and they also have a song and dance number to The Beatles "Here Comes The Sun"... after the snow that fell yesterday it would be nice if the sun actually did finally make it to our little patch of earth.

When I visited my friend Doc and read his post about Martin Luther King and the memories he shared with us, I was reminded of my youth. A time when I too took to the stage to perform.

I grew up in a white neighbourhood, went to a white school and had very little direct contact with people of other ethnic backgrounds (except the Greek side of the family which doesn't really count as "other" and Mrs Lee at the Chinese restaurant). In our school, the "ethnic" kids were the handful of kids that came from the neighbouring Mohawk reservation.



Then one day, I met Mr. Charles Griffith.

My parents enrolled me in tap lessons you see (Mom even took some too), and Mr Griffith owned the school. I can't put my finger on how old I was when I started ( I may have been 5), but I remember meeting him and shaking his hand. He had, what seemed to me like a very large hand.


Mr. Griffith was a black man.


I observed him with great curiosity, looked at the palms of his hands, took notice of the texture of his hair and decided he had the best smile I'd ever seen. He was a genuinely nice man who was welcoming and exhuded warmth... I wondered about his skin tone as I observed and focused on his hands. I studied the differences between the colour of his palms, the creases in them, the tops of his hands, under his fingernails... I wondered what caused the difference. Was it like what happened to my skin in the summer time? My fascination lasted a few short minutes, which can seem like a long time, and is for a child so young. And then, I forgot about it. I figured it was like having different hair colour and then I started wondering when I'd get the tap shoes that made a lot of noise and never looked back.


My father taught me about tolerance. He believed in treating people with respect. What was important to him was whether or not someone was honest and hard working.

He was the son of immigrants to Canada... an Irish woman and a Greek man... who came thousands of miles from their respective countries with their very different languages and cultures.. met and fell in love.

My Papou and Grandma Mary raised a family together... five wonderful children. They instilled in their children a strong work ethic, a sense of civil duty and community. And an appreciation for tolerance and acceptance of others' differences.

My father and his brothers and sisters shared those values with us, the next generation... and the cycle continues.





It can be done, we can all get along... but we have to want to. Let the sun shine in babies...

Here comes the sun, here comes the sun,
and I say it's all right


Little darling, it's been a long cold lonely winter
Little darling, it feels like years since it's been here
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
and I say it's all right

Little darling, the smiles returning to the faces
Little darling, it seems like years since it's been here
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
and I say it's all right

Sun, sun, sun, here it comes...
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes...
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes...
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes...
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes...

Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting
Little darling, it seems like years since it's been clear
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun,
and I say it's all right

It's all right

-- George Harrison

with love and patience, it will grow

I was visiting Charles at The Razored Zen and this idea for a post hit me. Thank you Charles.

His description of the flowers blooming in his lovely corner of Louisiana brought back a most cherished memory, several of them actually.

My father loved to garden. He probably would still be doing it if his eyesight wasn't so bad. Dad has macular degeneration. It's a cruel disease that gradually robs you of your sight. He stuck with gardening a long time even though he couldn't see the finished product...

This is Dad with his buddy Walter (who passed about 10 years ago, wow... that long) planting flats in Walter's front yard

Mom and I always bought Dad flowers for his birthday (in May) and for Father's day.
Not cut flowers. Flats of flowers... and he would then plant them in the garden at the front of the house. Remember that cute picture of me about to head off to school for the first time? Dad's flowers are behind me.


The last years he planted some, he would have me tell him what kind and colour the flowers were in each flat and then he would arrange the flats side by side in the order he wanted them planted.

Not so I would do it... nope! He was going to do it himself (it sounded like my girl when she gets her mind on accomplishing some new and previously unrealized feat).

Dad supervising as Chicklet tries her hand at watering houseplants

Then with his hands (which seemed so big to me when I was a child), he would delicately feel his way around each plant and gently break them free... one at a time. He had patience. Frankly, he needed patience with me and Mom in the house.

He would start out early in the day, and my father never stopped until he was done. He had perseverance and an amazing work ethic. And I loved it when he would lift me up in his arms at the end of the day, and I could smell the earth, the sun and hard work on him.

In the backyard, he had a veggie garden... carrots, big juicy tomatoes, cucumbers, green beans, leafy curly lettuce (which I didn't like because it just "tasted green"), and whatever he wanted to try out that year.

Mmmm Juicy!

I remember the smell that lingers on your fingers when you pick a tomato under the bright sun. The burst of flavour as you sink your teeth into that tomato and the feel of sweet juices as they dribble down your chin.

He instilled in me a love of the earth, of it's smell. Of how it feels to have dirt under your nails and a drop of sweat that tickles you as it slowly meanders down the side of your face, onto your neck where it comes to rest on the cotton of your t-shirt.

I can't wait to start that garden again... now if only the snow would melt.



My turn to be patient... I'm trying Dad!

"The highest reward for a person's toil is not what they get for it,
but what they become by it."

-- John Ruskin