Still as vivid as yesterday

Let me just preface this by saying I do not get a kick out of making people cry. I remember being a teenager, when we had people over for dinner, my dad would always make me play the piano. After a soulful rendition of "My Heart Will Go On," I would stop, take my hands off the keys, and look up to 5 or 6 tearstained faces. They'd coo about how good it was and I'd smile.  
"Look at her!" my dad would say, laughter in his voice. "She LOVES making people cry!"  
What I loved was touching people. Making them feel emotions with my music, or my words, so strong that it would pour out of their eyes.  
The following few posts are part of a project written for a short story competition. I didn't win the competition, but I think it's time to share my story.  
Fourteen years ago today, my mama passed away, and we've all come so far since then. The next few posts are little windows into the past 14 years.  

This is where my little family's biggest journey began. 
 

***

She hasn’t yet opened her eyes, but knows it is the middle of the night. Opening one eyelid, she looks at the digital clock, glowing red by the bedside. Four-thirteen a.m.

She turns over, and suddenly realizes she is in her parents bed. Confused for a second, until the sleeping aunt beside her brings her to full consciousness.The days’ events come crashing down, flooding into her mind like poison.

 

All at once, she remembers the ambulance attendants, walking slowly up the driveway with a stretcher. Just another day on the job.

She remembers her Dad, crashing through the door, a paper cup in his hands. He brought Mom a coffee every morning.

Her dad yelling at the paramedics.

“Get ‘em in here!”

The coffee got cold sitting on the counter that morning. Eventually, someone poured it down the sink.

Amid the turmoil, she realizes her sister has disappeared. She walks up the stairs to their bedrooms.

“Gill?”

“I’m in here,” her sister replies. Her voice sounds cold and hollow.

Gillian is sitting on her bedroom floor, her arms around the family dog Cal, a yellow lab. He has the same stunned look on his face as his “sisters.” Every time a sound is heard from downstairs, his ears go back.

Kate sits down with her sister. Winnie the Pooh stares out happily from the wallpaper.

“She must have had a seizure,” says Gillian, almost inaudibly. She is staring straight ahead, her hand running over the dog’s coat again and again.

In her own little world, Kate thinks aloud.

“I wonder what she’s gonna say when she wakes up. Do you think she had an out of body experience? Saw a bright light?”

Her sister doesn’t answer. Just kisses Cal on the head. A tiny moment of comfort.

She remembers the phone call from the hospital. They’d been waiting all day.

“Kate, can you put Nana on?”

“Dad, is mom going to be ok?” she asks, her voice shaky.

Her dad doesn’t speak for a second. Weighing the pros and cons of how to answer this impossible question, he takes a deep breath.

That’s when she knows. Her life is changed forever.

She remembers her dad coming home, sitting her and Gillian down in the bedroom, while a dozen friends waited in the living room.

“We’re going to be just fine,” he says, his tear-stained face a portrait of pure, heartbroken sorrow. “We have to stick together. It’s going to be ok. I love you guys so much.”

In that moment, lying in bed at 4:13 a.m., pictures and sounds swirling around her head, she begins to cry. She’s only 15 years old, and her mama is gone. Her sleepy aunt wakes, rubs her back.

“Oh, darly girl. I don’t know what to say.”

The thing that sticks out most in Kate’s mind about that day is the colour of the sky. It was the colour of concrete, of unpainted drywall. As if the earth knew their pain.

She closes her eyes, and opens them again. In the bedroom doorway, backlit from a light left on in the kitchen, is her mother.

As she speaks, colours start appearing around her. Shining aqua blues, soft purples, calming yellows and oranges.

“I’m ok,” says her mom. “There was nothing you could have done.

“I didn’t feel any pain. Everything just went black, and that was it.”

Chalking it up to a dream, she goes back to sleep.

The colours are still swirling, in the back of her mind. Despite her broken heart, she feels warm, comforted. A little bit of hope on a dark, grey night.

I believed him right up until his hair was on fire

This morning, I'm hanging frames in my new apartment. I brace myself, and push my bed away from the wall, not taking into account my wool socks (it's a basement apartment) sliding against the floor.  

Nosedive. Right into my mattress. I didn't even have the time (or the reflexes) to catch myself. My eyes well up, and a couple of seconds later, my nose starts to bleed. I'm sitting on the couch, with a frozen chicken breast on my nose, telling my sister my most recent mishap.  

"You seriously are the clutziest person I know!" she types in a text.  

I'm not going to argue with her. Ever since I was a little girl, I've been falling down, scraping my knees, banging different limbs, and knocking stuff over. I've become accustomed to finding weird bruises in weird places and shrugging them off. Someone who doesn't know me that well will sometimes see a multicoloured bruise and recoil in horror.  

Them: "WHAT DID YOU DO TO YOUR LEG?"  
Me: "What? Oh. That....Yeah. I'm not really sure. Could have happened when I brushed up against that drawer at work a couple days ago. Could have been the time I banged it getting out of the shower. Or when I slammed the car door on it yesterday. BUT DOESN'T IT LOOK LIKE JESUS?"  

Ever since I can remember, my dad has been blaming my clutziness on my mom. He'll smile, shake his head, and say "Wow, you really got that from the Weber side." "Clutzy like your mother." "You and your mom are twins."  

Then he'll go on to tell the story about when he took her on a hike up a mountain on their anniversary for a romantic picnic and she fell all the way down.  

"She just tumbled down, ass over tea kettle." Miraculously, she wasn't hurt. That's the gift I guess we'd been given, Ma and I. Bruises, scrapes, cuts - all signs of our one genetic downfall - but SO FAR my clutziness has not lead to any serious injuries. KNOCK ON WOOD.

And I always believed my dad. 

While stumbling on the sidewalk in front of hundreds of people during Canada Day celebrations, I'd think "goddamn you mother!"  

While running from first base to second and trying to ignore the snickers coming from my team's bench during baseball games I'd curse the woman who'd given me the gift of clutziness. 

"You run like a sack of hammers falling down a set of stairs. Just like your mother," my dad has said on more than one occasion.  


Aww, thanks Pop. Warms the heart.  


Lately, though, I've been starting to think I'm doubly cursed.  


Little drops of blood on the floor of my dad's workshop.  


"Oh, I cut myself yesterday."  


Curse words echoing through the kitchen.  


"OWWW! I pinched my hand!"  


Then one day he set his hair on fire. (Although I'm sure he'll blame me for this one.)  


He was staying with me last weekend, helping me set up my new digs. I lit a candle on the ledge of the bathroom sink.  


Laying in bed, I heard "Oh my god! Kate! Your candle just singed my head!"  


While brushing his teeth, he'd leaned over to drink directly from the tap and poof! Let's just say his bald spot is a little bigger now.  

I will admit, I've lit other people's hair on fire before (don't ask,) but never my own. 

I rushed into the bathroom to find TONS of burned hair on the floor and in the sink. The candle was doing nothing to quell the scent of burnt hair.  


Once I confirmed he was ok, the laughter started. 

And it hasn't stopped. 

With a mom who tumbles down mountains and a dad who lights his hair on fire, let's just say I'll never be a prima ballerina. 






 


 

2011 in photos

One of my New Year's Resolutions was to write more. You can see how that's going. January 15 and this is my first post since October. Although I have been to the gym every day since the New Year. So give me a freakin' break. 

2011 was a good year for me. Here's my annual year in review shown in photographs. 

Happy New Year. See you soon (I promise!) 

Soundtrack is Good Life by One Republic.


2011 in photos from Kate McLaren on Vimeo.

Perfection

Learning to appreciate the beauty in the simple things is probably the most important lesson I've learned from writing these posts. I was inspired (yet again) by this poem by Tony Hoagland. How can something so simple be so beautiful? Here's an account of the first 5 minutes of my day today - as close to perfect as it gets.

I wake up, stretch. Panic for a split second because it's light out and it shouldn't be light out yet and oh my god I'm late for work I've slept in I'll be fired or at least I won't be the first one in the office and then everyone will know I'm not really all that hardcore I'm just a big phony who sleeps 'till it's light out.

Realize it's Saturday. BEST. FEELING. EVER. I almost say "yessss!" out loud but stop myself because I'm not the only one relishing this perfect Saturday morning. The light snores coming from the other side of the bed don't bother me, but make me feel comforted and cozy.

Outside, frost covers the cars, sticks to every blade of grass. We are slowly being prepared for the long, wicked winter that hovers just around the corner. Right now, though, I'm not thinking about the frost or the cold air. I'm still warm and cozy in bed remember, the heat of the computer on my lap and the duvet creating a combination that makes me never want to leave. And I don't have to. Because it's Saturday.

The beauty of having absolutely no plans makes me feel so free. I will most likely get up, see my sister who is visiting for the weekend. I might take a drive to the lake to see my Dad. It's mornings like this I miss him, and think about him a lot. I wonder if I would appreciate this quiet Saturday morning as much if I didn't have someone sleeping peacefully beside me.

Yeah, I'll get out of this bed eventually. Pull on my jeans, open the door, face the bright world outside. Make coffee, maybe have some toast. Look out the window and say "Oh my god, look at the frost, isn't that terrible. Winter is coming." But deep down, I'm not dreading it. Because I know winter means many more mornings like this, curled up and warm, reading poetry and listening to nothing at all.  

The heat kicks in, the whoosh of the furnace adds some life to the otherwise hushed apartment.

I know my life won't always be like this. Eventually - likely sooner than later - it will get hectic, responsibilities will grow, kids will shatter the silence of a weekend morning (in the best way possible.) Saturday will take on a whole new meaning, and I'll have a whole new reason to look forward to it. 

But for now, I think I'll stay right here. Curled up in a warm bed, warm air tickling my face, fall morning light hitting the curtains, not a worry in the world.

An absolutely perfect Saturday morning. (Coffee would be nice, but I'll take what I can get.)

Ten years

I remember exactly where I was on September 11, 2001. It was the beginning of my Grade 13 year of highschool. I was sitting in the cafeteria with my friend Franny. We were probably studying. Or sharing a giant chocolate chip cookie and talking about the weekend, our hair, our crushes. 

I remember my friends Nick and Danny coming in, saying "this is crazy." Franny and I had no idea what they were talking about. I didn't wrap my head around the hugeness of it until I went home for lunch later and turned on the news. That's when I saw footage of the second jet hitting the South tower. I remember putting my hands over my mouth in shock. Saying "oh my god" out loud, even though I was alone.

I remember being in class that afternoon. My teacher said "this is going to be in the history books." He brought a TV into class so we could watch.

"You guys are watching history in the making," he said. The usually-energetic classroom was so quiet. Even though we lived far away from the horrible scene, we watched, wide-eyed. I didn't know anyone who lived in New York, but people were talking about a possible attack on the CN Tower in Toronto.

Ground Zero, 2008

I remember going to see my Nana after school. She was getting older, and needed to be checked on by my dad, my sister and I every day. Even though she was often confused, that day, she was glued to the TV like everyone else. When I walked in, she looked at me for a second, then back at the news. 
"This is the beginning of World War III," she said. "This is bad. This is just the beginning of something big." 

A few days later, Nana had a stroke. She never woke up. 

In 2008, seven years after that terrifying day, I visited New York city with three girlfriends. The City of Lights was alive with excitement. We stayed in Times Square, where the air crackled with energy. There were people everywhere, car horns blazing every second. The people of New York had begun to recover. Life had returned to Manhattan.

We walked to Ground Zero one morning. There, it was a different story. The spot where the Twin Towers had once stood was now a huge hole, surrounded by construction fencing. Unlike the air in Times Square, the air in Ground Zero did not crackle. It was so quiet. Sacred ground.

We went into a church across the street. Despite the explosions and massive amounts of debris, the church stood unharmed. This is where emergency workers stayed in the weeks following the attacks. It's now been converted into a makeshift memorial.

Ten years later, people have moved on. The rebuilding continues. But for people who were there on that day, people who ran from the dust clouds, who lost loved ones, for people across America and the world, one fall day in 2001 will never be the same. The words September 11th now hold a shared sadness for people everywhere.

Today, as the sun shines, the blue sky sparkles, and the wind whispers through the changing leaves, I think back to that day in 2001. Everyone has a story about where they were. How they heard.

My teacher was right. We were experiencing possibly the biggest moment in history many of us would ever see. It's still hard to understand why it happened. To imagine how scared those people felt as they sat at their desks and watched a 747 fly toward them.

Hard to understand, to imagine. Impossible to forget.

Judging by the stories told today, and over the last 10 years, we never will.

Thank you

I'm embarrassed to be writing this, seeing as the last time I did anything to this website there was clearly still snow on the ground and no leaves on the trees. A fact I documented with a photograph and uploaded, as to let everyone know how much of a lazy and uninterested writer blogger I am.


"You see this here picture? The one of the beautiful winter sunset? It's all you're going to see on here for the next six months while I frolic in the strawberry fields and eat bonbons, all the while laughing at my (six) readers who are stuck in a mid-April winter evening. ENJOY."


Anyway, wow. Tangent! All of that to say I'm sorry I haven't been more involved. LET'S HUG IT OUT, BITCHES.


A large majority of my time the past couple of weeks has been spent organizing a fundraiser for the media's Relay for Life team. Relay for Life is an all-night relay that raises money for the Canadian Cancer Society. Basically a full 12 hours of taking turns walking around a track, listening to amazing survival stories, helping to fund cancer research. It's a super empowering event, so when I was invited to participate with the media team, I jumped at the chance.


Then I found out each team member had to raise $100. I started having flashbacks to grade school, when, walking up the neighbors' driveways (with Girl Guide cookies, chocolate bars, pledge forms, or car wash flyers in hand) I'd hear the front door close ever-so softly and an almost inaudible whisper.


"Here she comes again," they would hiss. "And she has sausages this time. Didn't we just buy an entire collection of encyclopedias from her? HIDE."

So, when I heard about the mandatory $100 (which, really isn't a lot, especially when it's for cancer research,) I said "Hey, why don't we just have a fundraiser and raise all of the money from that, and then we won't have to ask our friends and family for money and then people will still like us and we'll be the local heroes who raised the most money in history with our totally innovative and awesome event!" (When I aim, I aim high.)


Word to the wise: if you ever have a thought like this, just raise the money. Ask your family and friends to sponsor you. THAT'S WHAT THEY'RE THERE FOR.


We got to work (and really, I never realized how much work it would be) organizing our fundraiser, an "Arcade Night" at a local indoor golf centre, where people could play video games and win prizes. We only had two weeks to organize (WHAT? Media people, waiting until the last minute, barely squeaking by under deadline? UNHEARD OF.) so naturally, I was a fast-talking, list-making, bossy Tasmanian devil the ENTIRE time.

But it was so worth it. 


Looking around Friday night, as our friends and colleagues (and even people we didn't know) played games, laughed, and filled our brown manila envelope with cash, I felt like a proud mama. We'd done it. It had worked.


During the organization of the fundraiser, we hit up many local businesses for cash and prize donations. While we prepared ourselves for the word "no", (and I found myself checking under the cracks of front doors for stealthy feet shadows,) it never came. Virtually, everyone said yes.


My co-organizer Amanda and I were shopping for last-minute snacks (donated by a local grocery store,) and saw a businessman we work with on a regular basis. He asked what we were doing with all those bags of chips (trying to hide the look of horror on his face,) and we told him about our fundraiser. He pulled a $50 bill from his pocket and handed it to us on the spot.


Even an hour before the event, I ran into a local politician at the hardware store. He too pulled out his wallet and asked "what do you need?" 


People came, made extra donations, bought slices of (donated) pizza, played our games. Even people who couldn't make it bought tickets to support us.


Although I write about fundraising events and take pictures of cheque presentations on an almost-daily basis, I've never experienced generosity so directly as I did last night. I work in the news industry, so yes, I know bad things happen every day (I'm STILL not over the Jennifer Aniston/Brad Pitt breakup. If they can't make it work I may as well go out and buy 18 cats now.) but I also know that most people have good, kind, warm hearts.

 As a team, we raised a couple thousand dollars for the Canadian Cancer Society. But personally, this event helped me too. It made me feel so lucky to live in a place where people are willing to empty their pockets just to make fools of themselves dancing around in front of a video game screen, and act absolutely ecstatic when they win a Fridge Tamer. All because they know there are people out there, most of them complete strangers, who are sick, who are dying, who are fighting for their lives right at this very moment, and who need their help.

It's these awesome people who make life so beautiful. Who make the world so wonderful.


What I'm trying to say, I guess, with this uber-wordy, emotional (albeit humourous and well-written) soliloquy is this:


To everyone who supported us, from our sponsors, to the participants, to our fellow team members, who withstood various "How are ticket sales going?" and "Who can help us move this giant prize with their big, strong manly truck" emails:


The sincerest THANK YOU.

You guys rock (both literally - I saw you handling those Rock Band drums - and at life in general.)

Twilight at Nellie Lake

Something I recently learned: that time of night, when it's almost dark but there's still a little light in the sky and the world sky is alive with colour? It's called twilight. 

I could have sworn it was called "the part of the night that makes you wanna grab a glass of wine and a partner and get to business." 

Whatever you want to call it, it's my favorite time of day at the lake.  

One of the things I'll miss the most.