The Great Pumpkin Seeds

My jaw is hurting. It must be the day after Halloween.

And I'm thinking about my Dad.

The one thing I always looked forward to at Halloween, aside from the candy and goodies, of course, was the wonderful aroma of roasting pumpkin seeds emanating from the oven.

Pumpkin seeds weren't a rare commodity in our house. In fact, my Dad was a major snacker of the crunchiest kind - peanuts, chips, almonds, sunflower seeds, watermelon seeds, and pumpkin seeds all figured as part of his routine. You'd hear the most satisfying sounds everytime you vacuumed. Seriously, sort of gross, all those shells, but at the same time certainly satisfying at chore time.

But fresh pumpkin seeds, dug out of fresh pumpkins, tossed in the perfect amount of salt and roasting just so while we were out trick-or-treating?

The best.

Rushing back into the house, we would promptly dump all of our loot onto the floor of the family room. After going through the exercise of splitting everything equally between my sister and myself, I couldn't wait to get into the crispy seeds that Dad had prepared.

They never disappointed either. We would usually spend the rest of the evening catching up on all the antics of the trick-or-treaters, laughing as we chomped and chewed, and occasionally spewed. Fun with my siblings, and fun with Mom and Dad.

So every Halloween, I make sure that when I carve the pumpkins, I scrape each and every precious seed meticulously from the orange fibres. I lack the perfect touch that my Dad had for every batch, and I do feel a faint discomfort after snacking on handfuls of these seeds after the kids get back with their loot.

But each twinge brings me those amazing Halloween memories as a kid, and back to a time that I looked so forward to something that only my Daddy could do, on that one special time every year.

Make the most perfect batch of roasted pumpkin seeds ever.

Here's munchin' to you Dad. We really miss you.

Hey Dad, it's me...

The last time I was alone with you, you were asleep. No hint of duress in your breathing, no shifting about in order to get in the most comfortable position ... and under normal circumstances it would have been as if you'd just passed out while watching your favourite sports match on TV, snoring while sitting in your leather massage chair.

A part of me was willing you to wake up, just so I could say "hi" and have you look at me, to look at me and really see me. For you to know that I was there, and had been there for a while -- had been there whenever I could during a period that had us all seemingly rushing to nowhere, fast. I had so much to say to you. But everything had been going at such a frenetic pace, it must have been almost like a circus for you in the day. So much going on, about you and around you.

It was night time, it was quiet, and you were resting. So I just sat at the foot of your bed.

The two of us in silence, exactly a year ago this moment.

I so wish I could have another.

*****

Friday is the one year anniversary of my Dad's passing. A full year has passed.

Mom has been dealing so well with the change in her life. Dad would be pleased to see that she's taken a liking to the stock channel even in his absence. His kids are all missing him, but doing okay. The son will be welcoming another baby into the family come spring; more successes and accolades have come to his younger daughter and her business, and his eldest daughter is working full time again. In management, no less - like father like daughter. I think he'd like that too. His grandbabies are no longer babies with the leader of the pack hitting the ripe old age of ten this year. Dad would have a whole lot to be proud of.

My family is getting together this weekend - I don't know if you'd call it a celebration, it just felt right to do something. What are you supposed to do at the one year mark anyway? What's right, what will feel right? I still don't even know "how" to grieve yet.

*****

All I know is this. It ain't beautifully poetic and after all those years of studying the dictionary, you'd think I could come up with something a bit better... but it's the truth:

I still really, really miss you, Dad.

Friday Fragments - Elyse-Mommy-Da

Welcome to another edition of Friday Fragments - please visit my friend, the lovely lady Mrs.4444.

****

I haven't even started Christmas shopping yet. It sucketh.

*****

There's a part of me that can't really get into the whole Christmas thing this year. I feel like I'm just going through the motions. First we planned the girlie's "school" birthday party (on the bus, it was on a bus!). And then we had the family birthday dinner celebration for her last weekend. Ho hum. Just going through the motions and feeling badly about it.

The garland is up; the tree is up; we've been to a wonderful holiday feast at a friend's place - kids and all; the school holiday concert where the kids in their dollar store elf hats, gleaming glasses, teeth and braces, chimed in as close to unison as any elementary kid could be expected to, cheering about Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa and whatever other holiday celebration is happening this time of year (I'll admit it, I was just looking for my kid, who rocked it of course).

But other than that, meh. I'm not even up to sending Christmas cards this year.

*****

I've been trying not to think about it too much. Because thinking about it just overwhelms me. Thinking about it makes me quiver with grief inside. Most of the time I'm pretty good at quelling it. But every so often, while I'm brushing my teeth, doing the dishes, when I don't have the thousands of thoughts in my head about what I should be picking up for dinner, what I have to remember for the next lesson, when the next cheque needs to be written for the next school event ... when I let my brain breathe for a second... it hits me in a tidal wave. And then the tears.

They say the first year is the toughest, with all the family celebrations and the void that is so apparent. Just get through the first year and things should get easier.

But it's so hard, especially since it all snowballed around this time last year. The diagnosis. The running around from hospital to hospital. The frustration of not knowing the best thing to do. The frustration of the holidays getting in the way of access to procedures, to doctors, to answers ...sure we spent a lot, a TON of time with my siblings and family, but I wouldn't wish that sort of family time on anyone under those circumstances.

This is getting very depressing. So I'll post a picture of my hot boots.

*****

Thank goodness I have my kids. They are bringing the spirit of the holidays into our household whether I want it here or not. I especially love the singing, the excitement in the little one's eyes as she pulls out each decoration to put on the garland or tree, humming a holiday tune:

"Elyse-mommy-da, elyse-mommy-da, elyse-mommy-da, la-la-la...Elyse-Mommy-Da, mommy, guess what? It means Merry Christmas -- in FRENCH!"

God, I love my kids.

With a week to go, Elyse-mommy-da to you all ...

The same ... but not

I went back to the gym for the first time in over six months on Tuesday. I'm sure it wasn't the smartest way to dive back in, but I decided to try my beloved Bodyjam class. Yes, the one with all the fab twists, turns, jumps and deep knee grooving to a funky hip hop beat. Go big, or go home with a broken knee, I always say.

But how could I not? I was so passionate about it, and for over two years, the sessions that I looked so forward to three times a week - that had me pushing my over-40 body to the limit - kept me feeling great about myself, and more importantly, kept my mind relatively stress-free.

I would be lying if I said I wasn't nervous.

The last class I had attended was about six days after my Dad's diagnosis. My knees were intact, and Dad's prognosis, although not wonderful (being an upside of 18 months), was at least something to strive for. I hit the routine hard, throwing my body into the ferocity of Kanye's "Stronger", somehow trying to will the strength to my Dad to fight...or more likely willing myself to find the strength to deal with the enormity of it all. I remember working through it in tears.

Less than four weeks later, he was gone and my will limped in unison with my bum knee.

Aside from the fact that I couldn't physically get much from the gym until my leg got strong enough, there was a big part of me that was reluctant... or even afraid to go back to the gym. Routine, what was that anymore? How could life go on just as it was before, when the world I knew, and especially my mother's world, was shattered?

I suspect this is what made me drag my heels to the physiotherapist - and made it even more difficult to start with my regular classes again.

So here I was this week, tackling Bodyjam Release 49. The same class at the same time, with many of the same friends ('Hey, Karen, where've you been? It's been a long time...') ... but it was not the same. The instructor was new; the routine was new; and my confidence not exactly at a high. Especially when the instructor told me to watch for the advanced options she would be throwing out there, to make sure I wouldn't push myself too far.

Damn, I used to love to jump, twirl, spin, samba... all that fun advanced stuff! This would be more torturous than I thought!

In the end, it turned out not to be too bad, and I managed to complete the class feeling just sweaty enough, with no twisted limbs to show for it. Which was a bonus. It was difficult to hold back, and it certainly wasn't the old me out there on the gym floor.

So it was done. No more excuses. I intend to get back into my regular exercise cycle again (which will have to include some core strengthening workouts).

As I drove home from class, I was stopped at the railway tracks. Unexpectedly, as I'd never had to wait for a train at this time before, not once in the past two years of regular Tuesday night classes. I watched each car pass in front of me, in rhythmic tandem with the piano riffs of Coldplay's "Clocks" playing on the radio.

And I thought of Dad, and how I missed him, how I wished he was still with us ... but also about the inevitability of time, how life must still move forward, and how he'd want me to continue to move forward. Remembering the profound words that my daughter had said to me, just hours earlier when talking about her grandfather...

"Just pretend that he's still here, Mommy, when you get sad. It will make you feel better."

While pretending the odd time isn't quite the same as reality, it'll allow me to take more concrete steps toward the future. I did feel better.

After the last car of the train went by, and the railway crossing arms lifted, I took my foot off the brake.

And headed home.

Photostory and a Father's Friday

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek


So I was tagged by my friend Cid to participate in a photo meme, and I thought it was so fun, that I would share it on my very first Photostory Friday as well. I had to look up my very first file of photos on this computer and find the 10th photo.

And this is what was there, I kid you not, just in time for Father's Day:

See how fuzzy that photo is? We were having problems with our first digital camera, the flash timing was off. But this photo says it all. It was taken during a staycation in the spring break of 2004, before I got pregnant with the girlie. We've always loved to take the kids downtown Toronto, and this time we stayed at the Royal York hotel, brought the boy with us to a fab dinner at Biff's (where he slept the whole time). He wasn't yet four years old. If they were to sit in the same position now, hubs back would be broken, or severely dented. That boy now goes up to my ear and weighs 72 lbs.

And look at the man, with his beer. What more could a guy want, a great pint of brew, and his little boy on his lap. Turned out that Remy's in Yorkville, the place where we'd occasionally go as singletons, was growing up a bit too. Quite family friendly.

For this photo meme I tag the following blog buddies...

Tooj
Kami
Tara
Louann
Heidi

*****

I wish I weren't so organized sometimes:

I found this card last year for the kids to give to Dad this year. I had two cards, because this one was so perfect I had to get it as well. He would have loved it.

Mom is going on a trip up north for the weekend with friends. I am very happy for her. The little brother and wife are going to a wedding tomorrow so we've got my cutie niece for a sleepover. My sister and her family are off to their weekend retreat.

How I wish we were all together again like we were last year. And not scattered, as we try to avoid yet another family gathering, where the grief and sorrow of missing him is just too much for us to bear.

How I wish.

The one where I don't want you to cry...

We celebrated my Mother's birthday tonight, with a special dinner at a special venue* and, for something completely different...no grandkids.

Different, for sure.

Things are different for all of us, but especially for her.

*****

Last night I heard some soft sobs coming from upstairs. My mommy radar was up, and I immediately dragged the little one up with me to see what was going on with her brother.

I stepped into my bedroom and saw my little boy wrapped in a tight hug with his Dad. Crying his heart out.

When my boy found out that he wasn't going to be at the restaurant, he asked about the venue. He found it interesting that my sister had picked it, and that it was somewhere that his Grandma would NEVER have chosen. She would have suggested a Chinese restaurant, or Swiss Chalet. And Grandma was always the one who chose for the grandparents' birthdays. The grandson knew his Grandma well, in fact he knew both his grandparents so well, because he was in their care while Mommy was at work until he was three years of age.

That's a lot of quality time with his grandparents. And that was a reminder of a lot of future time he won't have with his Granddad.

It's okay to cry when you're sad. I wanted him to know that, and he turned to me and we cried together. But I also reminded him that his Granddad was so proud of him, that he was so loved by him, and that he was lucky to have had the time with him. That Granddad is in a much healthier, happier place.

So the tears were dried. And they are not coming again today.

Because it's Grandma's birthday, and tears on someone's birthday is bad luck.

*****

There is much to celebrate about my Mother. I did a much better job telling you about her last year.

I continue to be in such awe of her amazing strength and attitude. She just soldiers on, and in many ways, is much busier than when Dad was here. She's making her own way around by taxi and bus (a scary proposition because we're not exactly sure just HOW bad her eyesight is)...appointments, lunches, visits to the museum, visits with friends, a couple days taking care of my niece, working out every night, joining a choir and then in her spare time watching her Chinese soap operas. Oh, and she's working on a couple of real estate deals.

Did I mention that she's 72 today?

With the attitude and energy of a 27 year old.

I'm still hoping that I inherited half of that stamina.

Happy, happy birthday Mom.

(*I used to tell the person who designed it that when you flush, the toilet water comes back through the tap - and she believed me. After all, what are sisters for?)

Meatball for breakfast

My mother should include "efficiency expert" in her resume. Quick, to the point, not wasting any time, tell it like it is ... all those things add up to "her". She even had my brother pack up all my Dad's things to donate within days of the funeral. I had to act real quick to get a scarf and a couple of ties as keepsakes. Mom had saved a few little trinkets for the kids, stuff that Dad had picked up from their many cruises that she had never cared for (Mom, remember, she's not all that sentimental or nostalgic). But other than that, and the most treasured of things that she kept for herself, most of it was toted away.

I suppose it was part of her dealing with the craziness of everything. She was still in a dream state, partially planted in reality, the other part of her still reeling in the thunder clouds.

So along those lines, Mom cleared up her pantry before she went for her month long trip to Hong Kong. And she passed me this:



Seems my Mom, not a huge fan of a lot of different cuisines, doesn't like Spaghetti and Meatballs. Never did, never will. So my father would pick up a can of this every so often, to get his 'fix".

I told Mom that this would go over well with the L-boy for lunch. And I had to smile.

Dad was just such a big kid at heart.

I have great memories of having a fantastic time with him when we were young.

Mom took all the part-time shifts as a nurse while we were in school, and honestly, the evenings she was working were often the most fun of our childhood. Dad would take us to the pizza joints, the fried chicken restaurants, the burger places, out for fish and chips, anything and everything our little hearts desired. For although Dad could cook (amazingly well, actually, for years even better than Mom), he loved junk just as much as we did.

I remember our trips to the pop Shoppe to pick up all manner of candy coloured soda; chasing my sister through the aisles at the hardware store as he picked up things that he would just store in the toolbox, rarely to use. His toys for his collection.

We would sit in the front seat with him in his baby blue T-bird as we went from place to place. Playing with the radio dial, laughing and joking while he told us to sit still. Trying to play with the switches for the electric window, watching as my little sister opened the door and almost fell out of the moving car in the parking lot while Dad was oblivious to our screaming (what's one type of scream compared to the other when you're dealing with 6 and 4 year old girls?). My sister still thanks me to this day for saving her life. Such fond memories. None of which we were allowed to share with Mom, of course.

So the other morning as I cooked up the can's contents to pack in the boy's Thermos for lunch, I saved myself a little morsel.

And when the kids had gone to school, I ate it. In memory of Dad.

I haven't enjoyed canned meatballs since I was about 8 years old.

But this was the most delicious meatball I've had in a great while.

*****

This coming Saturday would have been my parents' 45th wedding anniversary.

I wish we could celebrate joyously as we normally would; and yet I sit here in sadness, my heart so heavy with dread for my Mother.

And I wonder if this sadness will ever really go away.

Almost two months

I got a phone call the other night.

I was in a deep sleep.

"Oh Karen, it's Dad." Just as he always greeted me.

"Hey Dad, how are you?" I asked.

He replied, "I'm good, things are okay here. How are you and the kids doing?"

"We're okay. But we really miss you. Little G asked if she could go swimming with you tomorrow. Then she became sad when she realized she couldn't. "

"I miss you too. Things are good here though. It's fine."

"I'm glad, Dad. I wish I could visit you..." and then my sleep-fogged mind realized there was only one way to really do that.

And he came back with...

"Well, I think you'd better not. Don't worry, I'll call again."

I look forward to it, Dad.

Wordless Wednesday - drinking buddies

(one of my favourite photos of all time...)

"Lucky"

Although the loss of my father has just devastated me and my siblings, it's obviously my mother who has been the most affected.

I knew my parents loved each other, I had no doubt about that. After almost 45 years of marriage, they were still very much a couple. They did everything together, went everywhere together, still held hands. But watching them the last month, dealing with my father's sudden, grave illness, it became so clear to me that with my father's passing, it wasn't only the end of a wonderful man's life. It was the end of a beautiful love story.

They were still so very much IN love.

As my brother mentioned to me recently, you often forget that your parents started out as a young couple themselves. Before they had children, they had each other. And after the kids flew the coop and grandchildren came along, they had each other still. My parents faced quite a bit of adversity trying to keep their relationship together in the early days. I've always known of the obstacles they faced from their families when they decided to marry. And yet they persevered, and built a family and a life together.

Sure, they bickered and they argued ... what couple doesn't? And my mother seldom understood the dry wit or the jokes that my father would tell at her expense (a cultural thing, perhaps ... or more likely Mom got it all along and just didn't let on). Mom wasn't too keen on some of the bad habits Dad had, but back in the day, everyone smoked, everyone drank ( Mad Men, anyone?).

During the last six weeks, my mother never left my father's side. She stayed by him in the hospital room, catching sleep on a cot next to him only an hour or two at a time, so that she would be there whenever he was awake, whenever he needed her. And whenever he awoke, he would look out for her first, before anyone else. She did everything for him; and he fought so hard for her.

I caught a glimpse of their special relationship one afternoon when I was helping out in Dad's room. Occasionally Mom would ask Dad a few questions, to make sure he was still alert or to confirm that he was awake. Holding hands, her face close to his, she asked him, "Who am I?"

To which Dad responded : "Somebody".

Mom replied: "Somebody? Somebody to who?"

Dad: "Somebody to someone. Somebody here to test me."

After a little laugh, Mom said again: "Who am I?"

Dad: "My Wife."

And Mom, with a little chuckle, threw this at him: "How many wives do you have?"

Dad deadpanned: "One.... SO FAR."

Mom just cracked right up.

And I turned my face to the wall so that they wouldn't see my tears welling up while I laughed with them.

*****

My mother is a strong woman. She realizes that this is part of the life cycle, and that she's in the next chapter of her life. We're trying to gather around her as much as we can, but she'd like us to get back to our normal lives. Whatever the new normal holds.

But one thing that I know for sure, that I have been a witness to in the last little while:

True love does exist. I've seen it with my very own eyes. I'm a product of it.

And I will be so lucky if, by the time we reach our post-40th wedding anniversary, my own marriage will still hold half of the love that my parents had for each other.
-------------------------------------------