She comes to mind often. Her humus recipe surfaced the other day.
I wonder if she reached out to our friend, Bobby, upon his arrival. A few more photos were tucked into albums today.
Ed, Bobby and I headed out to see Pauline, our inspiring University professor, who lived perched above Kootenay Lake in Argenta. This was in 1996-97 and I was on Sabbatical. We got lots of sketching/painting done. We slept under the driftwood shelter on the beach. It was the weekend that my friend, Lynn Kierzek, died. While I slept, I wore a painting vest that Lynn crocheted. I still have that vest.
The border collie found in the photo is not Max Man or Laurie Dog…that’s Pauline’s dog. I felt right at home. I love the memory of this time away from the city, of conversations shared along the drive. We picked up a rose bush for Pauline in Cranbrook and planted it while in Argenta. We also purchased a bottle of spice that she needed, in a small grocery shop in Coleman.
May Bobby and Pauline rest in peace and may perpetual light shine upon them.
We lived on Ferguson, just off of Fox Farm Road, in Great Falls. The Marlens were our neighbours. Charlie, a medical professional, was a big hunter. I remember, at my age, thinking that was a pretty amazing thing, but really different. My Dad and brothers were big fishermen, but they had never journeyed into that world. As for Pam, she was a life-giving free spirit. She exuded creative and fun-loving energy. Our families shared many wonderful times. A little younger than me, the Marlen kids; Jimmy, Chuck and Ann, were all sweet.
When I headed to Lethbridge for University and my family was moving east, my mother had my etching framed up professionally and I gave it to the Marlens as a gift. I believe Mr. Winenger allowed me to take the copper plate home, and yet all these years later, I haven’t a print or the plate, but have only a strong recollection of both the process and the piece.
Searching for a photograph of the etching, led me to go deeper into the rabbit hole and there I found young Chuck’s tribute to his mother, eloquently written in 2017. I tried leaving comments on his blog, but every time I clicked “POST COMMENT”, my words were eaten up and disappeared into who-knows-where.
I think that it is the fact that I haven’t been able to connect that has led me to this series of posts because today has been a day of nostalgia since coming upon the blog post about Pam. Once, through University, I traveled by bus to Great Falls and visited Pam and Charlie. I have also tucked away the gift of a Fanny Farmer cookbook they gave me as a wedding gift. It is one of my treasures.
Young Charlie’s blog…
Art Studio Poster Explaining Pam Marlen’s Glass Bead Making Process
Today would be my mother’s 79th birthday, she passed away in 1997.
Pam Marlen ( Mary Pamela Smith) 1938-1997 Artist
I have very little of my Mother’s artwork, and if not for the kindness of my little brother sending me several items I would not have any.
As-well-as designing Passive Solar Houses, Gardens, and Landscaping – She also created amazing fused glass creations, pottery, glass beads, quilting, water colors, stained glass, and probably many other items I’m not remembering as I write this post.
She would even make the unusual fun vests she would wear to events …
Back label on Pam Marlen’s ‘Buttons to Beads’ Self-Portrait
Much of my mother’s artwork was sold and anything left after her death was distributed amongst the family; therefore, the stunning Fused Glass pieces are owned by others, but I am very happy to have what might be one of my mother’s only artistic self-portraits.
Buttons to Beads Quilt with Glass Beads by Pam Marlen
Pam Marlen didn’t do anything normal, and if she was going to do a self-portrait of course it would be something unusual like combining Quilting & Glass Bead making to make the portrait of her making Glass Beads …
Paper that was pinned to Quilt – Houston National Quilt and Beads Showing
She also included herself playing with buttons as a child in the portrait …
Pam Marlen as Child Playing with Buttons
All of the Glass Beads attached to the quilt were made by Pam Marlen and they were sewn to the quilt using buttons on the back …
Back of Buttons to Beads Self-Portrait Quilt by Pam Marlen
My mother liked to save items that she didn’t feel were worth selling because there was an imperfection on those items… she didn’t save much but some items had imperfections she liked and would save them inside her studio, just for her own collection.
I’m not sure how many people knew about her ‘imperfection collection‘, but she and I talked about them once and it was fascinating how she liked something special about each one.
Fused Glass Examples in Background
A few years ago I found 2 new glass fusing/ceramic kilns for sale at a very good price and I purchased them … While my mother had taught me a little about fusing glass, I took a private ‘one-day’ class to refresh my memory.
This Firebox-8 Kiln’s Temperature is Manually Controlled
Creating Fused Glass artwork is about predicting how it will look when finished semi-melting/fusing together … Thus, having no idea how to predict, I just overlapped interesting colors of broken glass into a pattern.
Cut & Broken Glass in Kiln before 1st Melting
After the first melting the instructor was very let down that the glass had cracked, but being my mother’s son I said, “Oh that makes it even more interesting, lets leave it and do the final melting to fuse it as is” …
Broken Slumped Glass that Broke and Re-Fused in Kiln
The final kiln firing softened the broken edges and created an interesting Fused Glass piece … I placed it on my dresser and consider it the first of many of my own ‘imperfection collection’ artwork pieces.
I imagine there will be many future Metal Castings to add to this collection 🙂
First Try and Glass Artwork on My Dresser
In addition to saving imperfect pieces, my mother also would create small pottery pieces that she could use to test out Pottery Glaze formulas …
Mini Glaze-Test Pottery Parts by Pam Marlen
It appears the items my little brother sent to me were part of a Green Glaze test and even these little items had her signature on the bottom.
While I only have test pottery pieces by my mother, I am proud to have those items because that is how I remember her – Always experimenting!!
Bottom of the Green Glaze
Formula Test Pottery by Pam Marlen
She signed all of her Pottery with a PM symbol (Click images for larger view)
Pottery Signature on Test Glaze items by Pam Marlen
She had shelves of these small glaze-test pottery items in her studio …
A larger piece of pottery that was probably a Green Glaze-Test item
Mary Pamela Smith (Pam Marlen) was born in Tulsa, Oklahoma to E.R. and Mildred Smith on July 31, 1938.
She created most of her artwork in or near Great Falls, Montana.
This looks like a Bowl she used to test some Green Pottery Glaze
The pottery I remember the most as a child was a natural wash look as shown in the image below with hand-touched clay items added to pottery she had thrown on her potter’s wheel.
Natural Glaze with Clay Hard Artwork on Pottery
For years she would make pottery Christmas Ornaments and give them out to friends and family… Many times having us as kids help her.
Received photos of an items my mother made that I had not viewed before …
Hat made for Pat Erickson by Pam Marlen
Pat Erickson sent these photos to me of a hat my mother made for her …
If you enlarge the photo and look closely the bugs on the hat are glass beads.
Hat with Glass Bead Bugs made by Pam Marlen for Pat Erickson
Pat mentioned Pam Marlen made this hat for her birthday 🙂
Hat created by Pam Marlen with Painted leaves & Glass Bead Bugs
Thank You Pat for taking the time to send these photos!! 🙂
. . .
Pam Marlen had a stroke at age 58 in April of 1997 while giving a speech to get donations for the flood victims of the Grand Forks, North Dakota flood of 1997… passing away later in the year.
She lived an interesting life … and myself being a Star Trek fan it was almost surreal to come home to visit and learn her quilting group was asked to be extras in a movie directed by Leonard Nimoy… being very private director he would rarely talk to people on set; however, he would come over talk to my mother about quilting and other artistic items.
My mother met SPOCK …Too Cool!!
… MISS YOU MOM
. . .
Old Photos of Charles J. Marlen Jr. … So when I lose them they can be found
online in a Google Search 🙂 CMR High School called Chuck Marlen
I think this photo was taken in about 1966
This photo looks to be about 1985 … Sometime during College
Sometime in the Late 1980s
Chillin’ in Hot Key West, Florida
Drysuit Scuba ‘Cold-Water’ Diving in Alaska
There *grin* … at least when I pass away, something will be online. *lol*
This morning, I sat with coffee. Soon after, I told Max that I’d get dressed for a walk. And, this is what happened. (The LOOK ON HIS FACE!)
While I was downstairs, digging out the next pair of track pants, I tucked away a Christmas box in the closet and came upon my sketchbook…1968-1972. Oh my goodness! I propped myself up on my bed and took a look and all sorts of memories came up. For one, at some point, my sister signed every one of my drawings. She was just a wee little girl and she must have held me in some sort of esteem…or, the drawings. As I think about my former Junior High art students, I think these sketches are very rudimentary. There’s nothing at all impressive about them. What’s with the solid contour lines? They look like colouring book drawings. Hmmm….f
I wrote little poems along the way…sentimental poems…what were they about? I guess I’ve always been a dreamer. Sketches and thoughts from 52 years ago…
So my trip down the rabbit hole began. And Max, patiently waited.
Nothing like clicking the camera and having this message come up. I suppose, in some ways, a person should walk through life without space on their memory card, in order to be fully present. So, I walked the rest of the crispy morning, without snapping and clicking and containing the magic of the landscape. Instead, I considered the beauty of the Pileated Woodpecker and the bright flash of red through the hoarfrost to be a gift to me. The morning was heavenly, on my side of the river.
I saw our adult Bald Eagle pretty quickly and snapped some shots as the fog off the river was quickly making its way toward me. The sound of geese and ducks rose up out of the icy Bow River. All else was silent. These are the photos that I grabbed before my lens withdrew into my camera and my camera shut down.
The White Breasted Nuthatch was the best that I could get yesterday, when I left Max at home and did my walk by myself.
Weather and nature contribute to struggles…constantly, I’m reminded that life contains brutality as well as beauty.
Always trying for a good shot of a White Breasted Nuthatch, but never quite getting it.
In all of that blue, above, one can see a Juvenile flying over. It’s wonderful that recently another birder-friend, Julie has sighted one of the Juveniles close, on our side of the river. At least one of them has thrived thus far, through the wintry weather.
As I poured over my archives last evening, On December 15, 2018 I observed an adult Bald Eagle on the nest. At the end of my walk this morning, I noticed that an adult had landed on the nest and was doing some shifting of the snow on its surface. So many beautiful miracles at this nest the past six years! It’s all so intuitive and spectacular to watch unfold. Already, I’ve been given a promise of spring.
Beginning mid-January, my mind was awash. My brother, John, was diagnosed with Stage 4 cancer (dammit) in hospital and then faced an agonizing three months in hospital, at home and then in hospice until his death on April 21. Those of you who know me…those of you who spent time with me….those of you who connected at all with me through that time, know, in part, what I was going through and how I was experiencing life.
Off of work for three months, things were tight and so I thought to sell some older art work on Kijiji. (Artists, don’t do it…don’t ever do it! lol) It wasn’t until John died, and I headed, with tremendous resolve, to the studio to paint that I discovered a missing painting and not just a wee little thing, but a giant colourful framed floral piece that was 5 1/2 foot by 3 1/2 foot…or so I remember it.
The other habit I have, however, is the habit of visiting out in the studio with friends and family. It’s a comfortable spot. Once chatting away, it isn’t an unusual thing to hear, “Oh, Kath, I like that painting.” If I hear those words, I go into auto pilot and typically say, “If you like it, then it’s yours. I want you to have it.”
What I need to ask my readers is…did this happen to you? Did you come into my studio one day for a friendly visit…and leave with a huge floral painting? May I refresh your memory? I’m posting a photograph here. If you have this hanging on your wall, please let me know. It’s not that I would ask you to return it, I simply want to know what/who I’ve forgotten. I want to know where this painting lives.
I want to know that there was NOT a heist (after all, nothing else was disappeared). This is a weird story, I know. It gets more weird…but, I’m not going there for now.
Dad, if you’re reading this…I know it will freak you out. Sorry.
*ALERT this is a personal post. If personal posts make you squirm, go no further. While this post digresses at points, from its subject, this is what losing a person does to another. Loss causes people to evaluate and re-evaluate mostly everything. Grief acknowledges in everyone, their humanity, both as it applies to the person who has died and as it does to the people left behind.
Since my brother died, this is what my family room work station looks like.
The Milk-Bone box contains treasures for a very special friend who was enduring invasive surgery at the same time as John was settling in at home, for as long as he could remain, as was his wish. In tandem with these two life-jolting experiences, a dear friend of mine died, leaving me absolutely crushed. Wendy was a huge strength for her circle of friends and for me and we were left, devastated. I continue to hold her husband and daughter in my quiet prayers. I still have not posted that parcel. It has, however, left the upstairs dining table, moved to the coffee table and then found its way here.
The photographs…well, I am meticulous about archiving and these are all that remain of the former stacks and stacks of loose photographs, a project in documentation that I began in 2007. Apart from these, all photographs are sorted and stuck into over twenty albums containing archival paper. All photographs, apart from those my readers see here, are documented. Something about losing my oldest brother, set this chaos in motion.
Something clicked inside of me. I don’t know if it was a click-on situation or a click-off situation, but, I’m just accepting what it has become. A positive example is the switch that was turned on and found me back in my studio, painting. And for this, I am very grateful.
Now, about losing Isabelle. (I am still ill-prepared to write a tribute for my brother, but one day, I will). This is not a tribute to Isabelle as such, but a heartfelt response to the news that my first born has lost her Granny and I have lost a friend.
With the news about Isabelle’s death early on Thursday morning, I pulled the albums dated ‘late 1970s’ off of the shelf and I noticed an obvious absence of bric a brac or photographs. This caused me an immediate sadness. I am left, in my mind, at least, experiencing loss (again) and want to reflect upon my time with Isabelle. I find visual images really help me with that when I can not conjure up pictures in my head. In this case, I have nothing to look at.
Through the loss of marriage and the pain of divorce, in anger and fear and incredible loss, it appears that I cut a chunk of my life away. It looks very much like I did not have a camera, but I’m pretty certain I did. If we look back at our lives, some of us selectively edit them, don’t we? I think that is what is so interesting about memory. We might, even to others, exaggerate a story of a memory that is particularly sharp within us. Or, we might interpret the events in a slightly different way, forgetting related sadness or retelling in a way that might be more complimentary of our own behaviours. Don’t we always, as characters in our own lives, wish to be viewed in best light? Historical fiction is, by far, my favourite genre for just this reason.
One day I’ll write down the story about how I arrived at the place where I fell in love with and married Isabelle’s son. Certainly, it is a story that even my dearest may not know. But for this moment, and for the purpose of this reflection, I want to aim this ship toward the subject of Isabelle.
I have, in my belongings, only two photographs of Isabelle as I remember her in 1979. I am sharing one of them here.
This photo is not, nor will it ever be framed and sitting on a mantel. But, it represents a moment of complete and utter happiness, a wintry night in 1979. And Isabelle was there.
She held concern for me and did her best to take care of me. In those years, we had very little and with her first grandchild on the way, Isabelle would appear at the door to our basement suite and pad pad pad down the stairs, arms filled with bags of groceries. She welcomed us to many beautiful meals and shared in her traditions of Christmas baking.
It was Isabelle who showed me how to buy vegetables in bulk and who canned with me at my small gas-burning stove.
Once we welcomed my daughter into our family, Isabelle was a remarkable Granny and their bond remained incredibly close right up until the late hours of June 5th. I find myself writing and deleting/writing and deleting so many acts of love that Isabelle demonstrated along my journey. I suppose I want to keep them close to my heart and alive in my own memory.
I am grateful that my daughter has always put her family first and equally treasures her husband’s family. This is a quality to be deeply admired in today’s world. Bonding with family creates a fabric of love that is strong and endures pain and hardship.
With the loss of my marriage, Isabelle continued to embrace me. We were able to continue to visit and to share laughs. I will always be grateful for that. We were two women who loved my daughter with an insatiable love and that will never go away.
I am very sad for Isabelle’s loss. I pray for her family at this time and for her dear friends who enjoyed her company over all of these years. Isabelle will have lessons to teach me through the coming days. I will watch for them.
The first of these lessons is to, even in your pain, keep those photographs. Put them in the albums. It is too late to write characters out of the script of your life. Shut the covers of the album and tuck them away, but know that one day, these will matter to you. And you will be filled with a wisdom that carries you beyond resentment.
My friend, Wendy, used to delight in really unusual words. I enjoyed the fact that sometimes, late in the evening, a word would show up in my text messages. It might be absquatulate or blatherskite.
I never really understood until now, what a wonderful thing that was…that my friend shared words with me in the night.
(Weird blog post alert…go no further if you are in the mood, more, to tune into Netflix.)
Lately I’ve been having a very narrowing experience that has turned out to be exquisitely broadening at the very same time. About art, these last ten years, I’ve said that my visual world and sensory interests have become very specific…it’s as though my visual world is in close-up and while shrinking, has become utterly complex. This started happening as it related to the act of walking. (circling the same pond every day for almost six years/walking a loop at the river every day for the past two.)
It was right about that same time, that I started taking photographs. Until that time, I had never had an interest. I think I was wanting to capture a moment. Birds became a part of that experience, simply because I would find myself standing still in front of a landmark; a bush or a tree; and I would analyse, in a very sensory way, the impact of light, atmosphere, sound, the smell on the air…and from a concentrated state, I would see more than what I anticipated…a Bald Eagle gazing down at me, from mere meters away, water dripping off a branch, a bright yellow bird flitting through low brush. In standing still, my world expanded.
I guess I first noticed this while spending time with Mom during her journey with Alzheimer’s disease. To give an example, I remember once leaving a lady’s wear shop, Pennington’s, after an hour of shopping with Mom. Once stepping through an inside door and into the entrance way and before moving on through the outside door to go to the car, Mom stopped. I stood behind her, hoping that no other customers would either leave or expect to enter. I gave her time. I looked at her face. Her head was tilted back and her eyes were closed. I asked, almost in a whisper, “Mom, why have you stopped?” She said, “Listen.” It was then that I stopped rustling the packages weighing down my arms and stood still. There was a very quiet but constant hum of air pushing its way from a vent above our heads…had I not stopped, taken pause, I would not have shared that moment. After a short while, Mom just moved on.
When the events of my life, over months and even years, became very focused…it seemed that the world continued to bustle as usual…rushing…filling…overflowing and moving on. All the while, my own focused days became slower. They became extremely sharp- edged. They became very specific.
These recent days… for example.
Since mid January, there is a particular rhythm to my days. I know that particular rhythm through the events that occur, predictably, around the clock. I find myself in the very same place at any particular hour. Some times it feels as though I am reliving time. Some would liken it to deja vu. The name plates beside the doors change, but the events do not.
It was a day like every other except that one of the temporary name plates read, Milton Born With a Tooth. I drifted past because, well, a person just doesn’t stop in front of some one else’s door and I was, after all, in the rhythm of my schedule, the very same that I had lived the day before. But, Milton’s name stuck with me. Didn’t his life somehow intersect with mine? YES! I’ve written, over time, about my love for the river. This passion began while living in the University of Lethbridge residence, perched on the edge of the Oldman River in southern Alberta. Graduating with my degree in 1977, I had established a connection with the river that would, as it turned out, never be broken. It was in the mid 80s, here in Calgary, that I became engaged with the group, the Friends of the Oldman River as Ralph Klein’s government seemed to be pressing ahead with the construction of a dam that would, in my view, impact our indigenous brothers and sisters, the environment and encroach horribly on species native to the region. I was appalled.
At this point, my readers are asking themselves, ‘how is this connected to your subject, Kath?’ Remember, please, my original premise…that in the workings of my narrowing life, my experience is broadening.
Yesterday I attended a marvelous book discussion at the Fish Creek Library. The book, Separation Anxiety, by Miji Campbell was easily read in the week following our February book discussion. I’m smitten by this group of women… so smart, fun and accepting. While my days are very overwhelming, generally, and while I need to be very responsible and engaged as a caregiver, I will move sun and moon in order to carve out time for this book discussion group.
I slipped in to the room and on to one of the last remaining chairs, just as the moderator was making introductory remarks and introducing the author, Miji Campbell. Her face was open and the feeling in the room was relaxed and welcoming. In the corner, there was a display of very nostalgic items that resonated for me and captured easily, my own narrative as a little girl, growing up in post war/cold war Canada. There was a Barbie Doll case… A Midge doll… some old black and white photographs.
The book discussion was remarkable. There were interesting questions and engaging responses from the author. I listened with great interest as the relationship between mothers and their daughters was discussed, topics of birth order, mental health, anxiety and the stigma attached to treatments for such anxiety or even the act of seeking out treatments. The conversation was a real exploration of wellness, a topic that I dearly need to explore right now, but struggle to set aside time for such reflection.
As I was listening, completely engaged, my mind began to piece together wee bits of information that Miji was sharing, connections that had not been made by me while reading the book. It was as though a light went off when, suddenly, I realized that for years, I had taught with Miji’s mother. And even more startling was that I was good friends with her oldest sister through my University experience. At the conclusion of the afternoon activity, I sprung out to the neighbouring Safeway store, in order to access the ATM machine and fly back to the room where I could purchase my own copy of the book and have it signed by Miji. As I drove home, I wondered about the various layers of this reading that were intended just for me…also, I pondered what messages I was supposed to connect with through the reading and the characters, who were people very much alive in my imagination and in my memory.
Miji’s cousin, Hughe, took video rather than photo, but I am grateful that he captured our meeting!
I think that in sitting in the stillness, I notice more. I notice the shift in weather, the changes in people, flavours, reactions. I make new associations.
This morning, I received a brief text message from a friend. I think it was comprised of fewer than seven words. But, the words were potent and remarkable and they gifted me with a daytime of support and love. How easy it might have been, given my past engagement with schedules, events and social media, that I might not have ever realized just how much power a message has…to heal…to wound…to break…to mend.
On Friday morning, I folded clothes and put them away, created just a little bit of order in my seeming chaotic life, these days. I relished the folding…the simple pleasure of the uniformity of it…the way the order gave me a sense of space and breath.
On Saturday, I went for a drive outside of the route that has become my routine. I was on sensory overload. Has this ever happened to you? There was almost too much to take in. What an amazing and complex world we live in! For every vehicle on the highway…a life living…a complex human being, overflowing with challenges, joy, questions, family, self-awareness, belief…open sky…melting ice on the water…stones kicked up…tires spinning…a huge machine beneath me.
Revelation is an act of noticing and being fully conscious to your life. The protagonist, young Douglas Spaulding, of Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury was the one who taught me that specific lesson. I want to come back to the revelations of these past months when my world stops shrinking and begins to grow again; when I am in my life as a player more than an observer. I am wanting to remember that I am grateful, but not in a self-help-book-kind-of-way, but in a really authentic sort of way. I think it is an important thing to see the beauty in the enormity of the sadness/challenges that face today’s human family. I think that it is not so much about hope, but about presence. When I am fully present, I am open to delight, surprise and revelation.
In the meantime, send one another messages. Create a care package for some one who never anticipates receiving anything at all in the mail. Place a treasure on someone’s front door step. Bake cookies. It all counts for magic in the end.
Today happens to be Thanksgiving Day for our friends in the United States of America. And so…I think of them.
On November 22, 1963, I was sitting in a sharing circle. My teacher, Miss Goodrich (I could never figure out why she wasn’t Mrs. Goodrich) was talking to us about pets and that we would be having a special sharing time in just a few weeks. (I brought my dog, Honey. Thank you, Dad.) We were captivated by the conversation.
Then, our principal came in.
She was a female and short. I don’t remember her name. She wore a pleated skirt. She approached my teacher, who was sitting in a short chair as a part of our circle…a student chair…it was very tiny.
The principal whispered something in our teacher’s ear. Immediately our teacher began to cry and tilted her head to the outside of the circle. The principal placed her hand on her shoulder and then left. Reaching in under her sweater sleeve, Miss Goodrich, took out a folded handful of kleenex and wiped her eyes…holding the tissue, she looked up at us. I remember her face.
“Grade Threes. I want you to always remember today’s date. Today is November 22, 1963. Today is the day that our President has died.”
I was a little Canadian girl living in Battle Creek, Michigan. While in the United States, I sang the anthem…I held my hand to my heart…I pledged allegiance. I never questioned my nation-hood….I moved every two years and I adapted to whatever circumstances or place I was given. In 1963, I was in Riverside Elementary School the year ‘our President’ had died. I would never forget.
Nor have I.
As I always do, at the beginning of High School Learning Strategies class this morning, I took a moment to acknowledge the words that my teacher had given me so many years ago. This year, I am 63…and yet, I have never forgotten. I remember the adult crossing guards weeping at the cross walks, the adults and children crying…I will never forget the absolute devastation that my little community felt on that day. And so, again, tonight, I remember.
I felt a degree of anxiety about the drive into Boulder. It was raining on and off and I was lagging behind Ramona. I didn’t sleep well on this trip. I was processing a lot and it had been a big day…cattle drives, Lost Creek, the Mineral Museum and the Copper King Mansion. The skies were dramatic and thunder was rumbling. I was really happy when we pulled into the Boulder Hot Springs, shortly after pulling off of the I-15.
The building facade was magical. The receptionist was calm and welcoming. I liked the place from first site. Some time in the early 1990s, this space was purchased by writer Anne Wilson Schaef and is presently owned by a Limited Partnership. I’ve read some of her work and it was a surprise to see some of her titles sitting on the counter. From that point forward, the entire evening became one of continued healing and peace. I am so grateful that Ramona sought out this venue.
I wouldn’t go into the hot pools while the thunder was booming…but, as time passed, the weather cleared, we popped into the outdoor pool…and then popped out, with the coming of the next series of sky flashes. It was wonderful for even that short time to recline back, pool noodle on my neck and float with Ramona…speechless…ears submerged…until I shouted out to Ramona that we needed to get out.
I then stepped into the hot springs steam where I shared space with a naked woman doing yoga. Briefly, I remembered my younger body. I remembered the University of Lethbridge and the wonderful cleansing feeling of the sauna in the Physical Education department.
This would be magic…I knew it.
and the art…
I claimed the time as mine…shared with a friend…so, no photos of the pools. And because of the rain, we didn’t head up to the sculpture, Seven Generations.
The space…the food…
Click on individual photos to enlarge.
After a scrumptious breakfast, I went for a walk on the property. Everything about the air was delicious. I watched the swallows, followed closely by the cat and listened to the cock crow. I felt mixed feelings as I headed for the parking area and embraced Ramona for the last time. Tears wouldn’t come…not until Ramona headed east, at the end of the driveway and I headed west. I had tears until I reached the town of Boulder, stopped at the gas station, filled my water bottle and resolutely headed north on the highway.
I took liberties, borrowing this title…Grateful Dead’s title for a tune on their album, American Beauty. My brother was listening to Grateful Dead and Gregg Allman (RIP), when I was listening to Three Dog Night and Gordan Lightfoot.
Over the years, I’ve kept some excessively sentimental journal entries, scattered, some in notebooks and some typed up. I’ve belonged to Brat Newsgroups and followed writing by other children of military fathers. An excellent novel is based on a very similar life experience during the Cold War: Anne-Marie Macdonald’s Where the Crow Flies.
As Father’s Day approaches and I’m thinking a lot about Dad and my family, but especially Dad, I’m putting together a bit of a reflection. I am proud of my Dad. I’m also pleased, in looking back, that I lived what I imagine is an unusual life, with very unique experiences. As you dwell a bit on your father, you will think the same. I’ve snapped some photos of bits and pieces and put them in chronological order here. The writing is sappy and poorly executed for the most part, but, I’m glad that I’ve documented some things.
Sherbrooke, Quebec and my parents met and fell in love. My parents knew and loved the Fortier family. We made trips to visit my Gramma and Grampa once we moved away. I remember my Grandmother’s home and her gardens.
My brother, John, was born.
John, Dad and Winston, the dog. This is either Sherbrooke or Falconbridge; I’m not certain.
Falconbridge, Ontario (Sudbury)
And a year later, I was born.
RCAF Falconbridge Circa 50s
Ste. Sylvestre, Quebec…50 miles from Quebec City. Brutal winters with banks of snow up to the tops of our windows. The birth of my brother, Stuart. Playing in a creek bed some distance from the house. Back yard clotheslines. Mom, alone, a lot. I watched my mother sew the dress that she is wearing in the photograph below. I remember it.
RCAF Ste. Sylvestre
RCAF Ste. Sylvestre
Ste. Margaret’s, New Brunswick...some miles from Chatham.
I guess we didn’t have a camera to snap photographs in Ste. Margaret’s in New Brunswick. I haven’t any archive for this period, apart from a few bits of ephemera. An old fashioned bell rung outside of the school for my kindergarten and grade one year. I remember my coat hook. I remember faking that I could play the notes on my recorder. I remember secretly loving Holmer Berthiaume. I remember clam digging and clam chowder. I remember neighbourhood fun. And, my brother, Cliff, was born. I broke my collar bone.
A neighbour-photographer asked my parents if he could grab some photos of me. This is one.
North Bay, Ontario…three different postings and some very special years. The dock, Chief Commanda, Expo ’67 and a field trip to Montreal, Winter Carnivals, fishing…
Trout Lake, Cabin stays and learning to play Cribbage, Mr. Carlin and the first inkling that I loved art, hiking through the gully, Gus.
Gus and the Rambler Station Wagon.
My sister, Val, was born.
My brother, Cliff (Hammer), at one of our annual air shows.
I have reconnected with many of the people in this photograph over the years. Social Media has been a blessing for Military ‘Brats’.
On I went, during our second posting, to Widdifield High School, grade nine. My friends were lunch time friends, including Kathleen and Susan. Debbie Harris took the bus with me to Hornell Heights. We were walking-to-school friends. I have since, lost her. Later in life, I painted Miss Mitchell, the librarian, and the Library Club, using a photograph in the 1969 Pendulum as a reference.
I treasured, most, my time in the art room. I still have some of my sketches from that time. I reconnected with David Carlin some years ago as he had an exhibit in Callandar when I was on one of my Trans Canada migrations.
Great Falls, Montana for Grade 10, 11 and 12. Ramona and I have done well to stay in touch all of these years.
Livin’ it up on Fox Farm Road!
My best friend, CMR, Ramona
The thing about military people is that they DO have attached to them, many group photographs and records. I will spare you this collection, but for the sake of my family members, I have photographed Dad’s collection and accessed several that he did not have from on-line research. If ever you want these, please be in touch.
Dad, you mean the world to me. I’m grateful for your love.