A poem for Aunt Jean

I promised I would share one of my own poems every day this week, and don't worry, loyal fan friend, I won't let you down. Joke's on you though, it's Thursday! Only three more days to go! Exactly the number of poems I have written in my life. You can't rush genius, people.

Here is the first. I wrote it a couple of years ago for my Great Aunt Jean on her 80th birthday. 

I hope you enjoy it.

Aunt Jean 
by Kate McLaren

Walking in the sun, a warm day in July,
I saw a woman, face turned to the sky. 
I could tell she was not new on the scene,
For her face, it was lined with the places she'd been. 

A long flowing skirt, and hair of snow white,
I tried to imagine her rich, fulfilled life.
Independant, strong, healthy and kind,
Well-read and well-traveled, indeed a sharp mind.

No doubt she'd seen wonders, beginnings and ends, 
Held newborn babies, said goodbye to old friends. 
Never complaining, 'things could always be worse,'
Cared for and taught many, this teacher and nurse.

The important things in life she did not overlook,
Dinners with family, a good wine, a great book.
Volunteer, activist, aunt, sister, friend,
Many a life she had helped shape and mend.

As she walks toward me, and breaks out in a smile,
I hug her and tell her it's been quite a while. 
I suddenly notice, looking into her face, 
I've seen her eyes in some other place. 

In a moment of pride, it all becomes clear, 
These eyes I see daily when I look in the mirror.
Today, Aunt Jean, what I'm trying to say,
Is I love you, and wish you a wonderful 80th birthday.

A lost art

As I sit here now, at 8:12 a.m. on a Wednesday morning, there are probably thousands of babies being born around the world. Hundreds of thousands of people are getting ready for work, or stuck in traffic as they anxiously anticipate the thrilling workday that lies before them. Just as many are probably crunching down on a spoonful of Cheerios, watching last night's hockey highlights on TSN, or listening to the newest Nicki Minaj album. Far, far less are reading poetry. I would venture a guess at maybe 4. And I'm being generous because I know my sister is probably on the subway on her way to work, and my Dad is likely walking in the woods somewhere having already been awake for 3 hours. 

What I'm trying to say is there are VERY FEW people these days that enjoy a good bit of poetry. Growing up, I didn't know us poetry-lovers were so few and far between. My dad used to gather us together to listen to him read some of his favourites - which quickly became our favourites. I still remember his voice as he rifled through books in his library in the basement. "KATE!" he'd yell. "Come down here! I want to show you something!" Which usually meant he wanted to read me one of his favourite passages from The Lark in the Clear Air or read me a poem. That, or he'd just let a really majestic fart and couldn't stand the thought of being the only one to experience it. He got me every time. 

As I got older, I remember complaining about a boyfriend who wouldn't listen to me read poetry. I would get to the second stanza, and he would cut me off, claiming he didn't "understand it." That's when my dad broke the news. 

"Hon, not everyone is into poetry. In fact, very few people are. You guys are because I am, and I've been reading you poetry since you were little. But it's really not an easy thing to like." 

I thought about the last Thanksgiving dinner we had as a family. As we sat around the table afterward unbuckling our belts, we played a little game called "let's recite our favourite poems and the first one who can't think of one LOSES." NERDY MUSICAL CHAIRS, ya'll! Does this explain a little about why I am the way I am today? I blame my family completely. 

Of course, my Dad started first:

Those last two lines get me EVERY TIME. Magical, right? 

Then it was my sister's turn. She pulled out a little Shel Silverstein.

One of my uncles got cute and went for some classic Joplin, proving that although unconventional, anything can be poetry.

"Oh lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz. 
My friends all drive Porsches, I must make amends;
Worked hard all my lifetime, no help from my friends,
Oh lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz."

My Uncle John (UJ) has always been known to be a little longwinded. After my mom died, he would drive 14 hours on a Friday night to "help us with our homework" (read: make sure my Dad was ok). We'd sit at the kitchen table with our books open while he talked for hours about politics, geography, and what trees do to the environment. When it was his turn to recite, we all took a deep breath. And he didn't disappoint. He BROUGHT IT. 

Of course this isn't the entire poem. The entire poem is about 15 stanzas, and he knew the whole thing by heart. When he finished, there was about 10 seconds of silence, followed by a resounding cheer. We dumped a cooler full of  Gatorade on his head and declared him the winner. 

I don't remember which poem I shared that night. But I know which one I'd share now. My favourite poem - one that will always remind me of my sister.

For the rest of the week, I will share my own poetry. Not because I want to show off, but because I want you all to appreciate the beauty of it.

Spreading the love, ya'll. I do what I can.

The web is what you make of it

For an artist, inspiration can come from a whole lot of different places. Sometimes, when I feel the need to write or create, I will try to make ideas come to me by looking at different websites, old pictures, reading old journals. I have been reading Dooce for about as long as she has been writing it. At first, I found her posts to be really funny, as she chronicled life in Los Angeles rubbing elbows with Angelina and being a hilarious single girl. It started out as a distraction. Her site was 1. visually appealing, and 2. incredibly well-written. Her style made me wish I was right there with her, eating Doritos and watching the Grammys and laughing at Kanye together. As the years have gone by, she's established herself as one of the most successful bloggers ever, and we've all invested in her life and rejoiced along with her when she got married, had two gorgeous daughters, moved, renovated, redecorated, and precariously perched a multitude of items on her dog Chuck's head. I visit her website almost daily, and it's one of the places that really helps bring out creative ideas. Her writing is beautiful, her stories are real, and her youngest daughter has cheeks out of which you just wanna take a big ol' bite.

If you're lucky, inspiration will come when you're willing it to come - but most of the time, it comes out of the blue, when you're drinking coffee on a Sunday morning surfing the channels for Will and Grace reruns. This morning, I happened to be so lucky. Even though I've only worked briefly in advertising (I'll admit I'm no Don Draper,) I notice commercials and print ads a lot more now than I did before. The following tv spot for Google Chrome did everything right. It told a story, reeling me in and making me believe this story was 100% real. Then, it got to the point. "The web is what you make of it." Although the Internet is great for looking up enchilada recipes, finding music, and emailing your cousin to say Happy Birthday, there's SO MUCH MORE you can do with it. This commercial made me want to pick up the computer and immediately start editing a video (using Google Chrome of course.) It inspired me to be creative. Well done, Google.

If you don't want to a) make your own video, b) try and win back your ex-lover using said video, or c) ride a roller coaster, you should probably call 911 because you are DEAD INSIDE.

The Low Down

Hiya! Remember me? Well, this is embarassing. We met at that party a while back. We were both lingering next to the spinach dip and laughing at the extremely drunk girl who was clumsily performing a mock strip tease while standing on the wobbly coffee table. We've seen each other around since then but have both avoided eye contact. Now it's awkward. 

All of this to say I know I've been missing in action for, oh, a few months now. I apologize to all (seven) of my loyal readers, but let me explain. Shit's been going DOWN here. Because I have nothing particularily inspiring to say this morning (the sky is the colour of concrete today,) I'll just provide a short recap of what I've been up to these past few (awkward) months.

1. Got a new job. Although I was challenged, excited, and had made lots of new friends at my advertising job, it was also causing multiple grey hairs to sprout from my scalp at an alarming rate. I took everything personally, breaking the first rule of sales. I took every "no" as a tiny little dig. "WHY DON'T YOU LIKE ME?!" I would shout in my head as I trudged out of the stores. And while I made some absolutely amazing (lifelong!) friends over the course of my position, I decided to move on. I accepted a job at the local library as a Reference Assistant - and after over two years of daily deadlines, quotas, targets, and pressure, this job is freakin' amazing. It's quiet, it's stress-free, it's wonderful. I'm surrounded by books and inspired by all of the great stories that have shaped our world. Although my cackle bounces off those high wooden ceilings like nobody's biznatch and I'm the furthest thing from a typical librarian (my hair is too short to fit in a bun,) it's exactly where I want to be right now. 

2. Tried a new lipstick. My sister was raving about RED. I've seen a few photos of her where she is dressed up, with a splash of bright red swooped across her lips. She always looks elegant, sophisticated, beautiful. "You've gotta try it," she raved. "Red lipstick will CHANGE your LIFE." So, I bought some. Rich Ruby by Avon (this is not a paid endorsement, but that doesn't mean I'm not up for it. LULU LEMON. IKEA. MAC. MAC. MAC. IKEA!) I smoothed it over my lips and looked in the mirror. I was five years old again, playing with my mother's lipstick. It looked unnatural and phony. I smiled. Lipstick coated all four of my front teeth. I don't think red is for me. (You can now sleep soundly with this important piece of information - and the image of my lipstick-stained teeth - embedded in your brains. YOU'RE WELCOME!)

3. Got a new roommate. I now live with a BOY. And it's NOTHING like I imagined. I've considered myself a feminist in the past, don't get me wrong, but I had a real domestic scene in my head about my adventure in cohabitation. I pictured the roommate coming home from work, and me in my apron taking some sort of casserole out of the oven and mixing my man a pre-dinner scotch. Complaining that wet towels and gym socks do not belong on the floor. TOILET SEAT GOES DOWN, and HONEY, DO I HAVE TO DEMONSTRATE HOW TO REPLACE THE TOILET PAPER ROLL? I practiced this line in my head more than once. I should have known that the roommate I picked would be a weirdo. After all, weird attracts weird. He's totally not a typical man. Clutter makes him break out in hives. Dishes in the sink makes the panic set in, and OH MY GOD please tell me that book on the bookshelf is not out of place IT SHOULD BE PLACED AT A NINETY DEGREE ANGLE OHH THE INSANITY!! Also, would you like me to make my signature asperagus and bacon penne tonight for dinner? I'll also pick you up a bottle of wine and some flowers on my way home from work to make the evening perfect. People. I am not exaggerating here. THIS SCENE ACTUALLY HAPPENED. To me! I make fun, but I think you'll agree with me when I say this? This thing I've got going on right here? It's fucking awesome.

4. Shaved my legs. Just kidding. We all know that doesn't happen until June (at the absolute earliest, depending on the weather.) 

So I guess that's it. Now you know. Don't you feel better now? (Don't answer that.)

The beginning

July 1, 1978.

The sun is setting over a peaceful lake, casting shadows of pink and purple over everything. With a crackling fire in the background, a holiday party is just getting started.

Brenda is visiting her girlfriends in Northern Ontario. As an unfamiliar face in town, she’s being eyed up by the local boys as she sips on a beer and chats with her friends.

Suddenly, a burst of happy shouting, as someone new joins the party.

“Billy’s here! Hey Billy, how ya doin’?”

A crowd forms around the newcomer, people shake his hand, slap him on the back, give him hugs.

She is impressed, intrigued. He is a shorter man, wearing jeans, a white t-shirt and cowboy boots. As he walks around the party talking to everyone, he oozes charisma.

Later, there is a beer drinking contest. She is standing directly behind him as he gulps. He notices he is losing, and tosses the rest of his drink over his shoulder, narrowly missing Brenda’s head. 

He holds up his empty glass. “Done!” Everyone cheers. 

He turns to look at Brenda, a mischievous look in his eye, puts his index finger to his lips.  

She smiles, giggles, raises her glass to him.

That’s when he knew she was the one.

         

Over 30 years later, cleaning out the spare room at her dad’s new house, Kate will knock over a pile of books. Her mom’s handwriting will startle her, staring out from a small, white book. It is decorated with bells and flowers and “Our Wedding Memories” on the cover. She opens it and begins to read. 

         

Bill and I became officially engaged on November 16, 1979. It came as quite a shock when we went to Timmins to pick out a ring and I ended up wearing it home.

         

He had wanted to pick one out, get rid of me for a minute, pay for it and hide it in one of my ski boots for Christmas. He couldn’t get rid of me though, so he told me if that was the ring I wanted he’d buy it for me right then and there. 

         

And it is so beautiful. One big diamond in the middle with two smaller ones on either side of it.

         

Up until now, this is the happiest day of my life.

They are married on a beautiful day in August, 1980.

Brenda’s bridesmaids wear dresses of soft lavender. Always a classic beauty, she carries a few simple, white Calais lilies.

         

Before going into the church, his brother says something to him, which later turns into a family joke. 

         

“Are you sure? It’s not too late to back out…”

         

Bill just looks at his brother and laughs, as the reverend’s eyes widen. 

         

As Brenda walks down the aisle, he can’t keep his eyes off of her. Can’t believe she’s his.

         

He’s never been more sure of anything.

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.