Tag Archives: Stories

The Book Of Thank You ~ Post 7: The Canadian National Exhibition

01 Monday Aug 2016

Posted by in Childhood, Education, Entertainment, Family Stories, Father, Grandmothers, Ice Cream, relationships, Rock And Roll, Thanks, Toronto, Tourism, Uncategorized

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The month of August always brings thoughts of a family tradition started by my Father in 1966.

That is when we would make our annual visit to the Canadian National Exhibition, or more commonly known to the people of Toronto as the C.N.E.

On the last day of school in late June, every child would be given a free children’s pass to this annual event.

Father was never one to let something free pass him by.

Set in the middle of downtown Toronto and bordering on Lake Ontario, the C.N.E. covers 192 acres of ground filled with a stadium, bandshell, coliseum, midway, fountains, picnic areas and much more.

Using Toronto’s public transportation, Father and I always went on the first Saturday after the grand opening. This usually coincided with the annual grand Scottish Tattoo parades where the sounds of bagpipes could be heard at every turn.

My Father didn’t care for bagpipes, and I remember how he would cover his ears and whisk me off to a quieter venue, a building perhaps, one of the many which would showcase countries from around the world, cars, or home shows.

The food building was a grand concourse featuring kiosks of cuisine from all over the world. I was partial to the corn dogs, while Father always contented himself with a cardboard bowl of spaghetti which cost only twenty-five cents.

Throughout the course of the day we collected free magazines, brochures, samples and souvenirs. By the time we left at the end of the day we would usually have three full bags of treasure to take home. I carried one while Father carried two.

I was allowed to purchase one souvenir of choice which was usually a punching ball, or an invisible dog leash.

The last time that I went to the C.N.E. with my Father was in the early 1990’s.

We brought my two young daughters to share the experience with us.

What I remember the most about that day was when we went to the bandshell where their was a rock and roll revival being held hosted by Bowser from the group SHA-NA-NA. We found a patch of grass to stand and watch. While the Platters were on stage singing their hit UNDER THE BOARDWALK, my daughters and I twirled and danced to the music.

Those were very happy moments.

In 1969, while my Father was away on business, my Grandparents took me for my annual pilgrimage to the C.N.E.

All these years later, it’s hard for me to decide which memories of that day are dearest to me.

Is it the memories of going on the Ferris wheel with my Grandmother?

She handled my rocking the carriage very well. I could be a handful at times.

Shortly after that, as I took another turn on the Ferris wheel alone, she won me an orange stuffed teddy bear. To this day, I think she paid off the carnie just so that she could see the joy on my face as she presented me with a new toy. I named the bear Godfrey.

We were very fortunate that day as our visit to the C.N.E. coincided with the visit of Canada’s current Prime Minister, Pierre Elliot Trudeau, who was there for a cinematic premiere at the Queen Elizabeth building.

My Grandmother and I stood less than ten feet from him as he stood for photographs and welcoming speeches.

At one point, he turned his head left, looked at me and smiled. I smiled back.

Now, my Grandmother has always been of the opinion that the Prime Minister was smiling at her and not me.

Indeed, every time that we found ourselves together in the following thirty-five years we would lovingly spar  with each other over this:

“Trudeau was laughing at me…” she’s say.

“No, he was laughing at me…” I’d respond.

Then we would end the discussion by laughing at ourselves.

One of the last times that I visited the C.N.E. Was in 2005, seven months after my Father had passed away. I brought my two daughters and a good friend.

We made new memories as we walked our way through trapeze artists, upside down rides, tall cups of lemonade, tall ships, log flumes, ice cream, all behind the beautiful backdrop of the Toronto skyline.

It was good to be reacquainted with one of my childhood joys and be able to set aside my lingering grief.

Thank you C.N.E. for those new memories.

May there be many more.

 

 

❤

My Daily Distraction ~ Post 198: Carpe Beanum: Seize The Coffee

04 Saturday Jun 2016

Posted by in Family, Family Stories, Uncategorized

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Carpe Beanum… Seize The Coffee!

Some memories never fade.

It was just this morning as I was making the coffee when I remembered back to the times when my husband and I brought our young children to Toronto to visit their great grandparents.

During our visits with my Grandparents, came the time when we had our inevitable “Kaffeeklatch,” which is the Gernan equivalent for British “Tea Time.”

That was when Oma and I would busy ourselves in her kitchen. She would prepare her signature dessert, fried Ochsenaugen, which are quite similar to our well known Canadian Timbits.

Then, she would always designate me to make the coffee.

Now, thirty years later I can still hear my Grandmother, or Oma as we called her, instructing me in German with a firm, yet loving tone of voice to:

“Mach es eine gute caffee!”

Which in English means:

“Make it a good coffee!”

This morning, as I dipped the measuring spoon into the awaiting ground coffee beans I could feel that memory ever so gently guiding my hand to scoop up just the right amount…

… Plus a little bit more!

After taking three sips of the resulting perfect cup of coffee, I knew I had indeed made…

“Eine gute caffee.”

I am fully confident that I will always have the ability to do so.

And for this, as I savour the morning coffee down to the final few sips…

…I find myself most grateful.

Memories Of Mother ~ Chapter 61… May 14, 2015: Still Breathing

14 Thursday May 2015

Posted by in Family, Grief, Loss, love, Stories

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One of the last things that my Mother ever gave me was a hairbrush.

This is a rather serendipitous revelation for me because I always loved my Mother’s hairbrushes.

Even as a little girl, no matter how many hairbrushes my Mother would supply me with, it was always her hairbrush that I would reach for first.

I know she found it frustrating, but I really didn’t care.

Yes, I loved her and her hair brushes that much.

My Mother did not look happy when she handed me this last hairbrush.

It was on the small side. It had a little black plastic handle and tiny white bristles. It looked very plain.

“Do you want to know how much I paid for this brush,” she asked me?

“How much?” I responded.

“Twenty-eight dollars.”

“Really, how did that happen?”

“I was paying my bill at the hairdressers when I saw the brush under their glass counter. I liked the small size of it and thought it would be perfect for my purse.”

Looking at the brush, I surmised that twenty-eight dollars was about the right price you would pay for a gourmet hairbrush at the beauty salon.

Mother continued:

It wasn’t until I got to the car that I looked at my credit card receipt and saw that the bill was rather high. That’s when I noticed that they charged me $28 for the hairbrush.”

“Why didn’t you return it?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Do you like it,” she asked me.

“Yes,” I said running the brush through my long hair.

“It will do just fine, thank you.”

Now… fast forward fourteen months:

I was not looking forward to May 14, 2015.

This day marks the one year anniversary since my Mother’s passing.

I lost her at 6 AM. It was a bright and sunny morning, just as peaceful as her passing.

As I reported to work for my midnight shift, I was confident that I could keep my thoughts positive and not give in to the sadness of this day.

At one point of the shift I went to the ladies room. It was hard not to think about her.

Seeing my unkempt hair in the mirror, I resolved to brush it out and rebraid it.

There was something about brushing out my hair that I always found soothing.

Looking at the brush in my hand I noticed that it was the brush that Mother gave me forteen months earlier.

The sight of it and the circumstances in which I received it brought me joy, and I immediately felt better.

If only I could go back to the moments in which she gave me that brush and tell her what a comfort it would be to her daughter less than a year and a half later.

Maybe then, she wouldn’t have been so unhappy about paying so much for that small little hairbrush that would wind up in her daughter’s jacket pocket. A brush which is both cherished and used daily.

In June of last year I wrote a series of sixty blog posts dedicated to my Mother’s memory.

The first blog post was titled “The Last Promise” which was about my last promise to my Mother.

I gave my promise that I would keep on breathing for her.

Well…

It’s one year later.

…

Still breathing!
🙂

My.Daily.Distraction ~ Post 169: 1.800.SANDMAN

15 Wednesday Apr 2015

Posted by in Childhood, Fiction, Folklore, Health, Myths, Parenting, Stories

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When I was a little girl, I remember the grown ups always referring to the sandman. For example, when my parents wanted me to go to bed, they would tell me that the sandman is coming. They also told me the sandman would take some sand from his bucket and sprinkle it in my eyes to make me go to sleep.

Upon hearing this, a lot of alarm bells would go off inside my head. This sent me a lot of mixed signals, and some of them were pretty scary.

I had some serious questions about this sandman that the adults were always talking about.

Questions like:

Why would my parents allow a strange man into the house?

Will the sand hurt my eyes?

Could he be trusted?

Does he have a proper name?

Does he like to sing?

A grown man intentionally putting sand in a young child’s eyes did not seem socially acceptable to me, even in the 1960’s. If I ever sprinkled sand into my playmates eyes, I would be promptly punished. So, how does the sandman get away with it?

I remember lying awake in my bed while waiting for the sandman. I wanted to see if he was the friendly sort or not. Sometimes, I’d sit by my bedroom window and look up and down the street to see if he was coming. Unfortunately, I always fell asleep before he arrived.

To this day, I still haven’t met him.

I’m beginning to wonder if he really even exists.

So, if you ever see the sandman, could you please do me a favour and pass on the message that I’ve waited a long time to try out that sleeping sand of his.

Tell him to bring me lots of sand.

Tell him to make sure it’s the good stuff.

My.Daily.Distraction ~ Post 128: Misdemeanours

27 Friday Feb 2015

Posted by in Blogs, Family, Stories, Writing

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A friend and I were swapping family stories at work last night as we sorted mail bundles.

I told him a funny story about my Father, and then he told me a funny story about his Mother.

The story my friend told me, was about the time his Mother had asked him to deliver a bag of Swiss Chard to a friend of hers while on his way to school. She had just picked it from her garden, and had promised it to her friend, who lived along the way.

Later on, as he came home from school, he realized that he had accidentally thrown the bag into a garbage bin. He had not remembered that it was the bag that held the Swiss Chard.

When his Mother found out about it, she was of course, unhappy. She had to place an embarrassing phone call to her friend to explain that her son had accidentally thrown her swiss chard away.

“She never let me forget about it,” he said to me, rolling his eyes as he finished his story.

I quickly agreed with him. Indeed, there were many things I had done which my parents never let me forget either.

And that’s when I was struck with a thought…

As a child and even as an adult, both my parents loved to reminisce about the embarrassing moments in my life, that I tried so hard to forget.

Again and again, my misdemeanours were raised during conversations. There were many times that I had to bite my tongue, while they laughed and teased me about them.

These stories made me want to crawl under countless tables.

Now, both my parents have emanated into another dimension.

Oddly enough, in their absence, these stories have now become my friends.

Those unhappy memories that I spent my whole life trying to forget, have transformed into stories which bring me joy!

It brings me even greater joy to share them.

My.Daily.Distraction ~ Post 121: The Calm Before The Knitting Storm

20 Friday Feb 2015

Posted by in Crafts, Entertainment, Family, Hobbies, Knitting, Movies, Stories, Weather

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My Daughter and I can usually sense when a there is a knitting storm on our horizon.

A knitting storm is what we call a day long knitting frenzy which usually occurs after obtaining fresh and pristine yarn.

We know the storm is inevitable in the morning because we get these mild twitches every time we pass by our knitting needles sitting silent in their mason glass jars. Jen has even reported that she can hear my yarn crying when I am preoccupied by everything else and not my knitting.

The knitting storm then usually breaks out shortly thereafter.

It begins with brewing a pot of tea which is then set atop our wooden coffee table, followed by a short discussion on which movie or television shows to watch.

Our favourites in the past have included: Sense & Sensibility, Lord of the Rings, Dr. Who, Harry Potter or Dexter.

Of course, these are movies and shows that we have already seen. That way, we can focus attention on our knitting, where it belongs.

It doesn’t take long before we can see our shawls, scarves, cowls, sweaters, mitts and hats take shape.

In the past, we have even had sock competitions and try to make a pair of socks in one day using size 5mm needles and bulky weight yarn.

Jen usually wins because she knits continental wise which is much faster than my British method. I have tried to change, but alas, you know what they say about an old dog learning new tricks.

Mind you, we don’t have as many knitting storms as we use to.

Although, thank goodness, from time to time we do manage to do a little knitting together even if it is for only twenty minutes or so.

Maybe not a knitting storm…

… but certainly a pleasant and short burst of warm summer rain.

My.Daily.Distraction ~ Post 110: Vincent Price’s Cousin

09 Monday Feb 2015

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My Father started working for the Post Office in December, 1971. We were living in Mississauga, Ontario at the time.

He had been there for about a year when one day he said to me:

“A woman that I work with says that she’s Vincent Price’s cousin.”

I rolled my eyes.

Even at the young age of thirteen, I knew when somebody was shooting me a line.

“Oh, come on dad…” I said to him.

“Do you actually believe her?”

He did not hesitate for one moment before answering me.

“Oh yes, I believe her, in fact there is no doubt in my mind,” he replied.

“And what makes you so sure that she is actually Vincent Price’s cousin?” I asked.

His face suddenly became very serious.

Looking me straight in the eye he answered:

“Because she looks just like him.”

My.Daily.Distraction ~ Post 102: Talking About Walking

01 Sunday Feb 2015

Posted by in Cars, driving, Fitness, Health, Stories

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My Mother, as I knew her could be funny and challenging on multiple levels.

She had such a good poker face that there were times I couldn’t tell if she was being funny or serious.

Take the following story for example:

After her husband went into hospice care Mother got an apartment of her own.

It was a nice place and right by to a little shopping mall where she bought her necessities of life: paper towels, printer ink, orange pop, and prescriptions.

When I was visiting her in Vermont, I liked going to this shopping mall because it had all kinds of pretty little things that I couldn’t get back in Canada.

Once, when I told her I was heading out to the store she asked me if I wanted her to drive me.

I could only look at her and stare.

“Mother,” I said to her…

“It’s only a hundred yards from the front door.”

She would just shrug her shoulders and raise her arms at me as if to say:

“Okay… okay!”

Not wanting to let the matter go, I pressed further and asked:

“Don’t tell me that you drive to the store….”

Ever since she moved into the apartment I worried about her being too sedentary and not getting enough exercise.

The drive would have taken less than ten seconds, as you were only driving from one parking lot into another.

Her reply to me was that yes, she did drive her car to the store.

Then it was my turn to shrug my shoulders and throw my hands in the air.

It was about a year after she moved into the apartment building that she got her own underground parking spot.

That’s when I got a phone call from her.

“Guess what?” … she asked me.

“What?” I said, instantly afraid.

“I walked to the store today.”

“You actually walked to the store?”

… I was happily surprised.

“How did that happen?” I asked in return.

“Well, I figured it out,” she began explaining to me…

“Remember my new underground parking spot that I told you about?”

I told her that I did.

She continued…

“Well, believe it or not, when I worked it out, it’s a longer walk to the underground parking lot than it is to the store.”

I wish I could have seen the look on her face as she was telling me this so I could maybe have some indication of whether she was kidding me or not.

Either way, I was very grateful that she couldn’t see my face because I honestly didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

She always loved reeling me in like that…

In fact…

It amused her to no end.

My.Daily.Diversion ~ Post Eighty-Seven: Lost In Trans-Atlantic Translation

16 Friday Jan 2015

Posted by in Culture, emmigration, Family, History, Humour, Writing

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I don’t remember very many stories that my Grandfather told me when I was little. However, I never forgot this story and it became one of my all-time favourites…

Here it is:

Ellis Island, New York City
Circa: Late 1940’s

A tired and weary husband and wife had just disembarked from a ship after a long voyage across the Atlantic Ocean. They had decided to leave the old country and emigrate to North America in search of a new and better life.

The husband and wife were systematically submitted to medical checks, with routine questioning and all the usual scrutinizing. This took a great deal of time. They waited in one line-up after another and learned that you needed a great deal of patience while being processed through the never ending channels of American immigration.

At last they were summoned into an office and there behind a heavy wooden desk sat an important looking immigration officer.

He asked them to sit down and they immediately obliged and sat down in the chairs provided for them.

“Please tell me your names.” He asked the both the man and the woman

They both told him their very long and European sounding names.

His next question was:

“What country were you born in?”

The husband told the officer where they were each born.

For his third question he turned his attention to the pheasant lady in the long cotton skirt and old woolen shawl…

He was highly doubtful that the woman would be able to understand the following question being asked in the English language:

“How old are you?”

She thought for a moment, wrinkled her nose at him and blurted out…

“I am dirty.”

“No, madam, I asked how old you are.”

“I am dirty.”

The immigration officer was beginning to get annoyed with this pheasant woman.

“Yes I understand that, but what I’m asking you is your age.”

“Dirty, dirty, dirty… I tell you I am dirty.”

Frustrated with this woman’s lack of communication skills the customs officer turned to the husband.

Trying to keep his risinge temper in check, he then asked the man…

“How old are you?

The husband’s expression did not change as he looked right at the immigration official and answered:

“I am dirty-too.”

My.Daily.Distraction ~ Post Eighty-Three: A Child’s Fable… “Harry Canary”

12 Monday Jan 2015

Posted by in birds, Fable, flying, Science Fiction, singing, Stories

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Harry Canary was born in that tiny little nest at a small pet store just like any other pet store you have visited.

His first vision was of three other little eggs just like the one he had hatched from.

Those eggs would be his two brothers Larry canary, Gary canary and sister, Mary canary.

Before long, the nest became very noisy with the constant peeping of the new little canaries Larry, Gary, Harry, and Mary. They kept mother, Cherry Canary very busy with her babies constant chirps to be fed.

Mother Canary it was very attentive to her new babies and was always feeding them.

Harry Canary however, was the loudest and the strongest.

Above his brother’s and sister’s peeps he’d cry:

“Peep peep peep
Cheep cheep cheep
Feed my beak or I won’t sleep.”

His little brothers and sister peeps were always drowned out by his loud cries for his Mother’s attention.

Before long, Harry Canary was the fattest of the four little birdies. Indeed he almost took up one third of the entire nest with his brothers and sisters almost being half his size.

More and more the mother Cherry Canary tried to satisfy Harry Canary’s hunger as he was almost always demanding more and more food.

And so it went until the little babies and not so little Harry Canary were almost ready to leave the nest.

Then came the day when the pet store owner forgot to properly close the cage after filling the mother canary’s seed cup with birdseed.

With the flutter of wings, mother canary found the open door which led to beautiful spring day outside.

She was quickly followed by Larry, Gary, and Mary canary.

They had all flown away leaving Harry Canary in the birdcage all by himself.

Harry tried once, twice, three times to fly out of the cage to follow them but found he could not because he grown too fat.

Alas, Harry was not able to fly. And so, in the cage she stayed until the pet store owner found the cage containing fat little Harry Canary.

One day, a family came into the store, and bought Harry Canary and took them to a brand-new birdcage in their home where they fed him lots and lots of birdseed.

To this very day he sings this song for his supper:

HARRY CANARY’S SONG

“Peep peep peep
Cheep cheep cheep
Fill my beak or I won’t sleep
I can sing, I can chat
Just don’t feed me to the cat.”