Existence versus Life

As I write this, my mind and heart is a jumble of myriad tangled feelings, thoughts, memories, and pain – each competing with the other and yet co-existing and draining my strength as they fight their constant battle. This battle? This war? This is grief. This is love when arms can no longer hold the loved one.

Less than 48 hours ago, my brother Ben passed away from septic shock combined with pneumonia that he developed from an infection in a tube-site for his gall bladder. The tube was initially inserted in February 2017 and his surgeon hesitated to remove both it and the gall bladder for fear of him experiencing a coronary on the table. He had atherosclerosis (with a total of 3 stents in various heart arteries, for which he was taking a blood-thinner since the last heart attack on February 14, 2019.)  He also had insulin-dependent diabetes, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, nephrolithiasis, and chronic renal failure, and he was on dialysis three times a week.

In fact, that’s how I found out that he was in trouble. His dialysis nurse called me and said he didn’t show up for his Monday morning appointment. After trying to reach him, thinking he had overslept, I called a relative and asked them to go check to see if he was at home. His car was, but he didn’t answer. After that, I called 911 who patched me through to the RCMP. They went to his house, saw him awake on his bed through his (main floor) bedroom window, and he was unable to get up. They broke the door down and called the EMT people. That would have been around 3 pm or so. The EMTs came and got an IV started. They took him to the local hospital who assessed him and intubated him as he was having difficulty breathing. Then they ambulanced him to the hospital where he normally did his dialysis. They got him there around 7 p.m.  Three hours after he got there, he took a turn for the worse, and went into septic shock. The nurse called me and asked me or someone to come to the hospital right now. They tried to revive him three times but to no avail. At 10:15 pm, he was pronounced dead.

And that is what the doctor told me ten minutes later, over the phone, as I was getting my coat on to make the two-and-a-half-hour trip to see him. Such pain I had not felt in over six years since my youngest daughter died at the age of 21.

My night-time trip was cancelled, of course. I made plans to pack up the next day, and go to the homestead to assess the damage and the mess. I might have slept four hours that night. The next night, with the help of some Melatonin, I slept for six hours, although there was one interruption at five a.m. when Ben’s alarms went off to remind him to get up for dialysis. Hopefully, tonight will be better.

During my waking hours, I have been doing a lot of thinking about the difference between existing and living. For most of his life, Ben just existed. He grew up thinking that he was a nuisance to his parents. He bore the inner scars of physical and psychological abuse by his mom and abandonment by his dad who never stopped her, and the bruises of an older brother who criticized everything he did and regularly pounded on him. He bore other scars too: a marriage that lasted only 14 years before it ended in divorce, alienation from his sons, rejection from an endless string of women, as well as being used by women who befriended him only for his bank account. His was a lonely life. He battled the loneliness with his art: he could draw landscapes, animals, and people just by looking at pictures of things. He composed so many songs and sang them with me and with that older brother when we were all so young (I was 16 at the time, so he was 22 and the other brother was 26) – gospel songs that were so beautiful you could hear a pin drop when we were done.

Yet he suffered. I remember him coming home from senior high school and sobbing as he begged me never EVER to judge a man just on his appearance. I never EVER forgot his words. 

Yes, most of his life he was a melancholy man. He existed; he created beautiful things and appreciated beauty in nature and in people, but his existence was spent waiting for the next good thing to happen, and being disappointed time after time after time. 

After his divorce in the early 1990s, he moved in with Mom and Dad. He was there for Mom after Dad passed away, and he made sure he was there to look after things for her. Others would come in and see him lazing around, as they called it. He rested because he couldn’t breathe if he got up and moved around. He had so many ailments: his lungs, his kidneys, his heart, his gall bladder, his pancreas,… people didn’t understand and he felt a lot of condemnation come from them. Nobody understood him, he told me, except me. And sometimes even that wasn’t enough to tame the monsters of hatred and bullying that he experienced – whether real or imagined – from others.

Once, he even tried to commit suicide. He had finally learned how to love unconditionally, and his girlfriend stole from him and used the money to get high. 

A few months later that girl died … and it took him months to make peace with that.

Photo "Eye" by graur codrin at www.freedigitalphotos.net

But by that time, he had learned to live. To REALLY LIVE.

You see, in October 2016, Ben had been diagnosed with stage one colon cancer. And in January 2017, he underwent a six-hour procedure to remove the cancer along with a 5-inch section of bowel. And when he woke from that surgery, while he was still recovering in the hospital, he was listening to the radio and a singer Skip Ewing was singing, “How can he be a king? He’s just a kid.” And God spoke to him in his heart, and said, “Are you listening, son?”  And he responded, tears streaming down his face, “Yes, Father. I’m here. I hear You.”

From that moment on, Ben started to really LIVE. He had some setbacks and some heartaches (like the death of that girlfriend). And he was living on a very limited income, never knowing if he would need to starve in order to be warm, or to freeze in order to eat. It was hard. It was REALLY hard. But he was finally LIVING. We would talk on the phone – and I would let him listen to music that he liked – and he would cry tears of beauty and joy. He never forgot how God rescued him, miraculously let him live, and would look after his every need. Even if he misplaced his car keys. Or his needles. Or his wallet.

Last year, on Valentine’s Day 2019, he suffered a major heart attack. The paramedics found him and the emergency team had to put an intravenous shunt through his shin bone to give him liquids. He screamed in pain and then his heart went into atrial fibrillation. They had to use the paddles to get him back – and he was “gone” for a few seconds there.

He remembered those few seconds. He felt completely at peace. He couldn’t see anything, but he knew that he was loved, cared for, and safe. And from that time onward, he lost his fear of death. He lost his fear of living, too. And the living he had been doing up until then just intensified. He could not keep silent about God’s love for him. Anyone who knew him heard him talk about higher things, spiritual things, wonderful things like love and joy and peace and goodness. He touched so many people that way: people in dialysis, people in drug stores, people at church, in grocery store lineups, everywhere.

That’s not to say that he didn’t have questions. We would talk for hours at a time as he tried to understand some spiritual concept or other. We talked almost every day, for up to two or three hours at a time. (It’s a good thing I have such a good cell phone plan that includes free long distance!) But every time we talked, he would not hesitate to tell me what he had been learning, what God showed him or how He helped him find something he needed. Or met a need in his finances. Or let him talk to someone about his experiences in the Lord.

And now this week, I have been living in his house without him here. Memories galore. Yet it feels so surreal: not quite right, like he should be here laughing and joking with us, listening to YouTube videos, or talking about how wonderful Heaven is.

And yes, he could not let a conversation go by before he mentioned how deeply he longed to see his Master’s face, to walk the shores of Glory with Him, to hug Dad, and to jam with friends and family gone ahead.

And now he is there. And he is LIVING beyond his wildest imaginings – and he could imagine a LOT!!

Good night Ben. See you in the Morning. Keep a chair for me by the hearth, and say hi to Dad for me. I love you beyond measure. 

And … I will miss you. I’ll never forget what you taught me about how to live life in a positive way and not just exist expecting the worst.

Thank you. Thank you SO MUCH.

And counting...

Well, it's finally here. 

Three hundred and sixty-four days ago, on the evening of the day we found out about her passing, we had no clue that we'd have made it this far. "The day the police came" is now family code for the day our lives turned upside down with the sudden death of our little girl at the tender age of 21 years. 

I've written so much about her here on this blog that no doubt you feel that you know her; that was my intent. To know her is to be changed by her. She was - and is - a force of nature. Learning her story is transformational. Telling it reminds me of the things she taught me just by being herself and going to the mat for people. 

The past year has been one I've spent counting. Counting the days at first ... six days since she passed. Ten. Twelve. (Every Wednesday was agony. The sleep wouldn't come until after 1 a.m. most nights.) Then I counted the weeks - two, three, four, five, six... thirteen - interspersed with months... each one seemed to drag by until it was over and then I would look back and say, "I can't believe it's been four months." Or six. Or eight. 

A trusted friend, one I've known now for 13 years, told me at the beginning of this process that the time would come when I'd stop counting the weeks, stop noticing it was Wednesday. 

I didn't believe him. 

But he was mostly right. Time has a way of ticking away and the tyranny of the urgent sometimes becomes a bit of a comfort; busy-ness can sometimes get one's mind off things and give it a bit of a break from the harsh realities of loss. 

But it doesn't diminish its intensity. 

What has healed me most has been the love and loving expressions of support and friendship that I've experienced - at first in a flood back last fall, and more lately in odd comments that this one or that one will make - comments that remind me that people haven't forgotten. They haven't forgotten me, my family, and best of all, they haven't forgotten her. 

This is the counting that - for the most part - I have taken to doing now. I count the expressions of love, the kind deeds (like the apple someone brought me today because she heard that I liked one once in a while and because she knew it was a tough day), the emails and Facebook chats, the posts on her wall and on mine - the snowflakes left on her stone today from three special people ... and the list goes on, and on, and on. 

These are the things I count now. Time does march on ... but love brings music and gratitude and peace. I count friends ... friends who sincerely care and who show it, as she did. I count remembrances of her. I count friends of hers who loved her dearly and who now - for reasons I can't quite explain - love me too. I count songs that she loved or that remind me of her personality or her beauty or her feisty in-your-face defense of her friends - or her ability to make others laugh... sometimes just by bursting out laughing long and loud and strong ... for no reason at all. And her laugh was so contagious. So very contagious. Even when I was angry at her, I couldn't help laughing with her.

Days like today are very hard. I won't deny it. But as love goes on and on, I am not counting the days ... but the signs of life that I see springing up where she has walked. The changed lives, the transformed attitudes, the seeds of hope and faith and love she planted that are now bearing fruit: these are the things that I count. 

Because THEY count.



Oh!  PS: This was actually one video that Arielle texted to me, but my cell phone broke it into two videos. It was created around the first of September 2013, about six weeks before she passed away. I've been waiting for the right time to share it with my readers. This seemed like a good time.  I apologize for any poor picture quality.

Part 1:

aaaand part 2. 

Fresh pages

September rises on the scene almost unannounced ... whispering, 'Oh, by the way, school starts soon.' And soon ... is now. 

Yes, I'm back in school again, this time taking an undergraduate course from my alma mater to beef up my qualifications to take a grad program from a school in Calgary, Alberta. It's on learning and motivation (maybe I'll learn something, haha!) and it will take me about three months or so. 

Attending the first class made me feel really good; I understood the prof and had some hope that I could actually get a leg up on my educational quest. That is, perhaps she (if I do well, which I think I will) would be willing to write a letter of reference on my behalf when I apply to Athabasca University in another five months or so. 

There's something oddly satisfying about opening a new book that has not been used, or turning a fresh page in a notebook, especially the first one. There is so much that has yet to be learned, written, experienced. It's so hopeful. 

Photo "Notebook And Pen" courtesy
of jiggola at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

It's been a month of fresh pages and new beginnings for our family. 

Specifically for me, this new course has represented a new start, an opening of the door to new possibilities and the promise of a future as a counsellor ... eventually. 

At home, there are fresh pages turning as well. We discovered that our deck - which was here when we moved in 25 years ago, was rotted and being eaten by carpenter ants. So, we paid a couple of guys to build a new one! (I've already flooded Facebook with those photos, so I won't put more here...) 

It's been good though, to be able to feel secure about going out on the deck without fear of falling through, or getting splinters in our feet, or slipping and falling. The guys did a great job - thanks Mike and Dalton W!

And then there's new life as well. We got a call from the shelter about three weeks ago, asking us to take our newly adopted kitten before she got to be big enough to spay. (Usually they like to keep them until after the procedure is over.) They said that she was losing weight, and that that she needed to be away from the shelter atmosphere to thrive (this happens sometimes). They asked us if we could foster her until she was old (and heavy) enough; they have to be at least two pounds! (We didn't hesitate to say yes!) So she is here as a foster-kitty (which means that all vet bills are the shelter's, a bonus!) Once she is spayed, we can finalize the adoption (that is, pay the adoption fees and take ownership.) Her operation is scheduled for September 17.

So, in the meantime, we've been getting her used to her "big brother" Loki. The size difference (he's five times her weight) means we have to supervise their play rather closely, and limit their interaction, but we find that they really look forward to that time together. Surprisingly, sometimes Eris even gets the upper hand!

It's so interesting having a small (but VERY active) kitten in the house again. Eris moves so quickly that we've joked about getting whiplash watching her!! Her zest for life and her honest expression of how she feels is contagious and encouraging. It helps us to concentrate on life and happiness again. There's been too much death, too much sadness. 

We need hope. 
And laughter. 
I like laughter. It's good. 
And do-overs. 
And a never-ending supply of fresh pages.

Firework

Eight months ago we were getting ready to say our farewells to one of the most amazing, unpredictable, compassionate, loyal, intense people we've ever met. That she also just happened to be our daughter was a happy bonus. 

When we were talking about how we would remember her, how we would honour her, her sister came up with the perfect tribute. We'd pass out sparklers at her funeral to celebrate her life, her joy, her zest for living to the fullest, her 'go-big-or-go-home' attitude. We'd suggest that when it got dark that night, for people to go outside and light their sparklers, and hold them high in her memory. 

The night following her funeral, a few of her closest friends got together and videoed themselves doing just that. Together. Which is the way she'd want it.

 
In fact, a lot of what I and those people who remember her best have done these past several months, has been in honour of her and the way she lived her life. Full bore. Full court press. Hard forward. Brightly burning just like the firework she was (and is.) Mediocrity wasn't even in her vocabulary. If she believed in something (or someone) she showed it, no questions, no reservations, no holding back. She plunged head - no - heart-first into everything. Fiercely loyal. Generous to a fault. Passionate. 

And whole-hearted. Courageous.

If you are on Facebook, I hope you can view this video, taken by Darcy Anthony Brown on November 2, 2013 and shared on Arielle's wall. 

The idea was inspired by Katy Perry's "Firework." CARPE DIEM. Seize the day!

 https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=10151698891516817
 

Rain Dance

The summer of 1978 in southeastern Maine was hot, sultry, and insolent.

At first we loved it. It was sunny every day, there was hardly a cloud in the sky, and the temperatures were hot, and got hotter as July wore on. 

I was working at a summer camp as a general staff member for ten bucks a week plus room and board. The work was steady, sometimes back-breaking, but since I was working with the horses, I had about three hours a day when I was in my element. The rest was tough slogging: sweat and biting critters (mosquitoes and blackflies) with no end to the joe-jobs: kitchen duty, food prep, and cleaning public toilets after every day of use by 8-year-old boys who had no parents around to monitor their TP usage (shudder!)

And the weather! The camp bordered a large lake, and we caught ourselves gazing longingly at the boats filled with sports fishermen from the fishing camp up the road, imagining how cool it would feel to be out on the water. The grass started to go yellow; the dirt got harder and harder. A creek ran through the center of the camp, and as the weeks wore on, we kicked up dust clods when we walked across the compound, and the creek dwindled from three feet deep down to ... barely a trickle. 

A similar moth invasion happened in British Columbia
in the summer of 2011

The first week of August was when the moth swarms hit. The streetlight just outside the dorms was eclipsed by thousands of moths in a mad frenzy to get to the light source - night after night for nearly a week - it was eerie. And just as quickly, they were gone. 

Yet still, no rain. We wondered when (or if) the skies would break. The heat was oppressive. Tempers flared. We tried to focus on our duties, and we tried not to complain, but we knew that every one of us was praying for a thunderstorm. In private conversations, we questioned how long this dry spell could last. The air was oppressively heavy. Everything was an effort. 

One afternoon around August 13, the guys and I (there were three of us who worked with the horses) decided to take the horses out for a ride in the woods and beyond the usual trail ride boundaries, to give them (and us) a break.

We'd gotten to the other end of the trail and into a farmer's field, about a half-mile away from the camp paddock, when we heard it. A low, distant rumble. "Is that...?" one of us asked. Then we heard another - this time much closer. We looked up. The sky had gotten dark with clouds. It had been sunny when we left. 

The field lit up with a blast of heat-lightning, followed closely by thunder. It was getting closer. We looked at each other, gulped, and wordlessly turned back toward the camp. 

The rain started just before we turned into the back part of the trail. It wasn't any kind of rain we'd ever seen though. The drops were about a half-inch in diameter, and they were pelting down ... straight down ... splashing off the hard-packed earth. Our clothes were soaked completely through in seconds. Lightning lit the trail path, coated now with soggy pine needles, criss-crossed with tree roots - the thunder was nearly constant. In the five minutes or so that it took to get back through the labyrinth - the trees lining both sides of the trail and and arching over our heads. Yet our canopy provided no protection from the pelting rain. 

Finally we reached the paddock and one of us hopped off his mount and opened the gate. Hurriedly we took our gear off the animals and led them back to the lean-to, where there was some shelter from the rain. We put some hay in the hay-rack and hung up the gear, and trudged back to the camp, another quarter mile - this time on foot. 

My comrades ran ahead of me... I figured I was already as wet as I could get, so I walked. As I did, I was aware of the rain pelting down on my head, running past my eyebrows and off my eyelashes; what didn't run off the eyelashes rolled down my face freely and ran off my chin in a little rivulet. 

It was raining.  It was RAINING!

I rounded the corner and saw the girls' dormitories: two large buildings. My room was in the left building, but my best girlfriend, whom I had met only a couple of months previously, stayed in the right-hand dorm. I turned right, went to her door, and knocked. She answered the door and I squinted at her astonished face. 

"It's raining!" I yelled above the thunder.

Her face brightened. "Yes! Yes it is!  Wait a sec!" She went to her bunk, slipped on her shoes, and came outside, where her hair immediately began to get as soaked as mine. She grabbed my hand and pulled me out into the dirt between the two buildings. There, we spread our arms wide, turned our faces toward the sky, and twirled, laughed and spun like little kids, splashing in the puddles and shrieking in delight. The creek was nearly flooding its banks, lapping up against the bridge in brown wavelets of mirth. Once she was as drenched as I was, and we had laughed so hard our sides ached and we were spent, we each headed back to our respective dorm rooms and began the process of cleaning up.

That girlfriend and I still stay in touch; our friendship has seen us through some pretty tough (and great) times. I think about that "rain dance" often. I think of it when I get too caught up in the past, or the future, and forget to enjoy the moment. It helps. 

It reminds me that even the things I think are bad ... can sometimes end up very good.

Forgetting it

"Do you remember when..." can be the start of something beautiful, the shared memory of a wonderful time spent together.  Or it could produce just the opposite (such as sharing where we were when a horrible atrocity happened, be it the assassination of a president, the advent of a hurricane, or the crumbling of twin towers and the loss of some three thousand lives). Or it can be the start of a pathway to resolving a long-standing feud or grudge. Or starting one.

Memory is God-given.  It is a tool to remind us of better times and to help us learn from the worst times, to use to help others who are struggling with the same issues we once faced (or still face).  It might not always be pleasant. It might even hurt.  But it's better than the alternative.

Great article on Alzheimer's safety here

When a person starts to lose his or her memory for whatever reason, it can be a frightening, even confusing and distressing thing for the person or for his or her loved ones.  Ask anyone with any kind of dementia (whether Alzheimer's or permanent brain damage from decades of alcoholism!) The reasons are immaterial. Whether someone "can't help it" or "brought this on themselves" by a lifestyle or an addiction ... matters not: once the memory starts to go, it's too late to go back and fix it, so judging serves no purpose.  Forgetting where something is: from car keys to cell phones to where you parked the car to even where a particular store is located - can cause panic and stress.  Forgetting where someone lives when you've been there dozens of times before is frustrating.  Forgetting where you were going when you're half-way there is confusing.  Sitting in a parking lot trying desperately to remember why you came to this store (or how to get home) ... is horrible.  

And it's horrible to watch someone you love going through this memory loss process.  The short-term memory goes first.  Living in denial that there's anything wrong, the sufferers often blame those around them for hiding things, keeping secrets. Or they forget small things that inconvenience others, and then berate themselves when the truth comes to light.  

As the memory loss expands, the baser fears start to come out - and show their true character, which they may have been able to conceal from some people until that point.  And then the long-term memories start to go. Gaps develop in the memory that are small at first - then whole incidents, certain types of behaviors which they deny they ever did or said.  They accuse their loved ones of lying about the past, making things up, contradicting them.  They remember incidents differently than the way they actually happened.  The result is a lot of upset for them and for those who are closest to them.  Eventually they may not even recognize the people who've known them all their lives, a tragic state of affairs.  Some even revert to a child-like state and live in that pre-traumatic era for the rest of their lives, relying on others to meet their every daily need because they are incapable of doing it themselves. 

Witnessing the permanent effects of memory loss on someone's life has made me rethink expressions like "forgive and forget" and "wish I could forget that whole year..." and "forgetting those things which are behind..." all of which refer more to an intentional forgetting - a choice (though the incidents are remembered and can't be forgotten) to not let those unpleasant events define who I am in the now, even though they are a part of my history and I can draw upon them to help someone out of a rut they might be in today.  

I've come to realize that the memories I have, the experiences I have had, can be (as they say in the recycling world) "repurposed." I'd like to think that (whether the memories I have are pleasant or painful) I have lived the life I have lived so that someone, someday, would be able to look at the beautiful things that God has done in my life in spite of the pitfalls, and say to themselves, "She has something special.  I'd like to know what it is."

That would be something to remember.
 

A Merry Heart

"... does good like a medicine."

With that in mind, here's a snippet sent to me by a friend recently ... I just had to share it.  After all, I'm older now than I was when I started this blog entry (grin) and I'm finding that as I get older I take myself less and less seriously...

Texting Shorthand for Older Folks

We've all seen the texting shortcuts used by kids -- LOL (Laughing Out Loud), CUL8R (See You Later), etc. It's time older folks got in on the action -- yet our daily concerns are different from youngsters'.


With that, expect to start seeing these shortcuts from your older friends:

ATD - At The Doctor's

BFF - Best Friend Fell

BTW - Bring The Wheelchair

BYOT - Bring Your Own Teeth

FWIW - Forgot Where I Was

GGPBL - Gotta Go, Pacemaker Battery Low

GHA - Got Heartburn Again

IMHO - Is My Hearing Aid On?

LMDO - Laughing My Dentures Out

OMMR - On My Massage Recliner

OMSG - Oh My! Sorry, Gas

ROFLACGU - Rolling On Floor Laughing And Can't Get Up

and...

TTYL - Talk To You Louder

=================================

Rare kind of friendship

Friendship is a funny thing.  You never know what will cause two people to become friends - or stay friends.

There are the friends you have because you see them every day, you share a lot in common with them, and they're fun to hang out with.  There are others, though, a rare kind that you can even see once every several years and it's like the time never passed; you pick up right where you left off, and the years melt away.  Everyone needs someone like that.  At least one someone.  Hopefully more! 

The past week has been rather difficult for me for personal reasons, especially yesterday.  The reasons are immaterial, it's just interpersonal stuff.  I was feeling attacked by someone against whom I could not retaliate for various reasons.  

This morning was weird.  Usually hubby and I would have gone out to have a coffee early in the day, but we waited for some reason - then decided on a whim (okay it was because we saw politicians in the neighborhood and didn't want to talk to them) to go right then.  Having only had one cup of coffee, we decided to head to our usual spot for another.  The cream machine was on the fritz so we had to wait until it was fixed before we got our coffee - five minutes.  

During that five minutes, someone got in the lineup to be served, and was waiting patiently.  I thought she looked familiar ... but I didn't want to stare.

Within a minute or two, I saw her out of the corner of my eye, heading briskly in my direction.  It WAS the person I thought it was - I had not seen her for over three years! She was so pleased to see me and I her, that we must have spent ten or fifteen minutes standing there talking a blue streak - like those years had vanished - catching up on our news and each being so glad the other was there.  

It was just what she needed in that moment, and just what I needed as well.  I told her afterward that this was a "God thing".  (After all, coincidences are said to be just "God's way of remaining anonymous"... but there were just way too many of them so He tipped His hand - on purpose!)

We reminisced, we laughed, we shared, we even cried a little.  It was such a wonderful gift, given when each of us needed it most.  

I don't pretend to know how these things work, but as I look at the problem I have been having all week and the events of yesterday that will need to be addressed, somehow it doesn't seem quite so overwhelming anymore.  I guess I needed to be reminded that I'm not alone and that people can like me for exactly who I am, and more than that: I can contribute to someone else's life and enrich it just by being there - and that there are people that enrich my life by their very presence, people who I like just for who they are.

That rare kind of friendship can't be quantified.  It's priceless.

Hope Springs

Winter is long in the Maritimes.  It's large and in charge.

For now.

Snowmobilers are loving it.  Skiers too.  Winter enthusiasts (to me that's an oxymoron but we shan't go there today) have absolutely been thrilled with all this white stuff.

I've seen snowbanks twelve feet high, have been trapped behind a snow plow as it punched its way, backing up and taking its umpteenth run, through a huge drift on a country road in the Maritimes.

Contrast that with the scene we'll most likely see in as little as two months or so.  Culverts filled with run-off water, lawns bursting with greenery but too wet to mow, and best of all, the spring flowers!

First the crocus, the lily of the valley, and other assorted "early spring" flowers peek out from behind the snowbanks.  Then, the tulips, cautious souls which have been poking tentatively above the ground while the others were blooming (and being flattened by the last ice storm of April), send forth their stems and start to bud.  By May 1 they are showing their colours: rainbow colours, pastels, and deep reds and fuchsias.

The mess and the muck are part of the parcel.  

We welcome spring - and by spring I mean spring-time green and colour, not necessarily the date on the calendar - because it means an end to such a cold and forbidding winter.  By the time the tulips drop their petals, the sound of the first lawnmowers will be heard.

In the meantime, we wait.  All of nature waits.  The trees catch the scent first... and the tips of their branches bulge with pregnant anticipation.  Before the last winter storm has happened, they have already prepared themselves inside - the sap is flowing, unseen to most of us (unless you happen to be in the habit of collecting the sap for maple syrup!)

And slowly, almost imperceptibly, the miracle happens.  The temperature starts to rise. Oh, it acts like a yo-yo at first; winter is reluctant to release its icy grasp. 

But it happens.  The pessimism that we've fallen into, wondering if we'll ever be rid of the ice and snow - the irritability of cramped streets where snow removal crew have run out of places to put it all - starts to erode.

A flicker of hope.

And then we start to notice those other things.  Goose-song from alphabet letters in the sky.  Icicles with drips coming off the tips.  Snow turns to water when it hits our doorsteps.  The snow banks closest to the houses start to recede from the foundation.  And one day we head outside on our way to work and the unmistakable smell of spring - the smell of things decayed from last fall, mixed with muck and mire, nourishing the earth - greets us.

And hope springs. 

The Good Fight

It had been a particularly stressful day, oh, almost 40 years ago.  I don't really remember much about it, since it was a lot like a lot of other days; tensions always ran pretty high in the home when I was growing up. Usually someone would be having a better day than the other and situations could get defused relatively quickly.  

This one day, though, neither of my brothers had been having a good day. They would be, oh, I guess around 20 and 16 years old.  Tensions built, tanks ran on empty (as they did most of the time anyway) and I could tell that things were deteriorating fast.  They were SO getting on each other's last nerve!! 

I don't remember what triggered it exactly, but I do remember that one brother started criticizing the other for the same old thing that annoyed the life out of him.  Maybe it was the way he chewed.  Something - there was always something.  And the other brother finally snapped; he'd been putting up with the verbal abuse all day long and he was so sick and tired of being harangued and told what to do.

So he lashed out.  Soon, they each started saying things to deliberately hurt the other.  Mom, who would never let us fight with each other, never express our anger or our frustration (thanks for the baggage, dear lady) watched the two of them stomp up the stairs to finish fighting and throw some good punches while they were at it.  

And then she made that ... sound ... the one that froze us in our tracks, the one that meant she was just about to lose her temper.  "AUUGH!!"

Both brothers halted in mid step.

"You guys fight just like cats and dogs!" she cried.

Something about the "over-the-top" way she said it just struck them in the right way.  I saw the oldest, at the top of the stairs, whirl around and drop to all fours on the four-by-four landing.  

His face contorted, his mouth opened wide, and his eyes narrowed as he glared at his brother.  He held up his right hand in a claw-like manner.  And he HISSED.

Not to be outdone, the younger brother put his hands on the stairs and started climbing them on all fours, got within five feet of his brothers face and started BOW-WOW-WOW-WOWOWOWing at the top of his voice.  

"REEEEEEE-AAAAROW"  came the high-pitched reply from the top of the stairs as oldest brother swung his "paw" at his brother's face.  

"RAGRRRRR-RO-RO-RO-RO-RO!!!" went the younger.  

"Pa-AHHHH-T!!" said the elder, and as his "claws" connected with the other's face, we heard "YIIIII!" Then "GRRRRRRROWF!!" 

By this time my mother, my father and I were laughing so hard that the tears were streaming down our faces and our bellies were sore.  

The boys had had their "good fight" and everyone forgot what the argument was about.  

After a few more "wuffs" and "rrwowfs", one boy went one way and the other the opposite way.  Neither of them lost.  And all of us won.