My life in places: My first house

For most of my life, the only thing I ever really wanted was a house of my own.

Home

It wasn't about the picket fence and the family for me; a home of my own was about putting down roots. It was about taking something and saying "This is where I am."

I've always been a home-body. I would get homesick on sleepovers until I was a teenager. I needed that sense of security.

Stability.

My mom, my brother, and I shared that need. The rest of our family was happy planning for what strange land they would visit, while we wanted nothing more to be at home with the people we loved.

My mom and I spent hours going through magazines and the Sears catalogue cutting out pictures of things we would decorate with if we only had the money.  We wandered through the neighbourhood peering into people's windows for decorating inspiration (and sheer nosiness!)  We loved to see how others lived and talk about what we would have done instead.

For both of us, having a home where people could come and be themselves was top on our lists.

Let the rest of my family travel.  I want my own bed. My own bathroom.

When my mom died, I used my inheritance for one thing I knew she would understand.  A BRAND NEW CAR!!!!!!!

No, wait.  That's The Price is Right.

What I did was use a big chunk of it for a downpayment on a house.

Deciding to buy

My dad did what they always tell people not to do in the first few months of grief -- he made major life decisions.  He sold the house where he, my mother, and my sister lived and bought a condo.  My sister was suddenly homeless and our family had no centre.

I felt like I needed to create a new base to make up for the one we had all lost when Mom died.

So, you know, I made a major life decision.

I spent a long time looking for the house of my dreams.  I'm sure we looked at 20 before I found the one I wanted. I saw a lot of houses, but the ranged from the "meh" to the "ugh".

Finally, I walked into the house on Chinook.  It was very 70s and not the good retro kind. Old cupboards with older hardware. Wooden spindles creating room separation.  A backyard that was all garden (aka: a weed plot)  It wasn't much, but I knew it could be home.

I bought it and less than two months later was in the doors.

My very first house.  It had a ton of hydrengeas which I happily tore out.

Much to the dismay of everyone else in the neighbourhood.

My first home

My sister, Lyn, moved in with me.

We went to town picking out paint chips, deciding on room layout, painting, and decorating. I made a hundred to scale room designs complete with cut out furniture I could arrange and rearrange.

We started painting almost immediately and had a lot of it done before we moved in.

When the time came, I had a house that was almost totally me. I painted almost every inch of the house.

Of course, being the procrastinators we were (are), we decided to wait until we moved in to paint the kitchen a gorgeous cherry red.

In the 3 years we lived there, it never got done.

I left the paint for the next owners.

My living room: Eggplant on the main wall, Lilac on the other.  

I bought the blue furniture brand new and won a trip to Mexico.

Mine

I loved that house.  Every room had my touch (except Lyn's room... I wouldn't touch that if you paid me) and it all meant a lot to me.  I scoured books to learn how to do electrical work and I changed every outlet on my own.

I fixed things and built things and hung shelves and pictures.

It was exactly how I wanted it to be.

It broke my heart that my mom couldn't see it.  But, I was doing what she couldn't anymore -- I was trying to create a home for my family to migrate to.

My bedroom displaying my paintings and the plant I kept alive for 3 years.  

Thanks to Ky.  She watered it everytime she came to visit.  Once a month.

Despite all the trouble there was in that place -- a ever-renewing lake in the basement, an entire yard of weeds that were supposed to be a garden, the biggest lawn known to mankind -- it was my home.

I loved it.

Too much of a good thing

When my sister Ky moved in with Lyn and I, we were the happiest bunch of happies that ever happed. We were three sisters living the dream.

We watched a lot of So You Think You Can Dance and ate a lot of take out, but we had a great time.

Then one day,  the neighbours mentioned to me how great it was to see the place as it was meant to be.  They explained how three spinster sisters had moved to the house in the 70s and lived there until the last one of them died just before I bought the house.

I joined Lava Life the next day.

The rest is history.

My life in places: Sunset Drive

The Guy and I are preparing to move into our new home sometime this week. We are busy packing and working and stewing and planning. I thought while we were doing that, I would share my life in 5 places with you. I came across this question a few years ago and wrote about it on my old site. No one read it, so I figured it would be okay to pretend it was brand new!

If you had to describe your life in five places, which sites would you choose and why?

I love questions with that kind of history and depth to them. Also, I like when someone or something else tells me what to do. Also, I can take this to mean anything -- cities, locations, houses, etc.  That is why I've decided to show you the 5 most important places that have shaped my life.

This is the first in a five part series:

My childhood home

We moved to Regina the fall I turned 7 years old.  The house on Sunset Drive is the house in my memory when I think of being a child.

Shaped like a milk carton and decorated with bits of stone and glass, it was a perfect house for small kids: three houses from the school, a huge backyard, near tons of other kids, and close enough to walk to the library.

This house is the background for my favourite memories.

It is the place where my playhouse was built.  The place where I soaked my neighbour's birthday party with the garden hose.

It's where we tied my little sister to the tree and where she ran away to Canadian Tire before anyone noticed she was gone.  It's where my brother broke the window playing baseball and where my Mom watched us play out the kitchen window while she baked bread.

It is the house where Dad and I would put lights on the huge fir tree in front during the coldest blizzard in November using two long sticks nailed together with a T bar on the top.

Front of our house on Sunset Drive.

It is the backyard that holds the most importance for me here.  It is where we spent most of our time.

It's where the neighbourhood kids congregated and where I felt the safest.

It was also where I spent a lot of time being grounded for doing stupid things outside the yard, but that's a different story.

The left quarter was where Mom's little garden was and our playhouse was built on top of the sandbox once we outgrew it.  Three lilic trees grew along the back fence and created a perfect hideaway for scented excursions.

But the best was the playset.

The centre of my childhood. The swingset my Dad built for us.

Dad installed this shortly after we moved in.  We spent hours climbing the rope, swinging the swing as high as it would go, trying to make the entire structure sway.

It was part of the set up in our elaborate game of K!ll the Russians (can you tell we knew all about the Cold War?) where you had to climb the rope, jump down, climb the fence, run around the house, climb the gate, climb the tree, jump off the playhouse, and get back to the swing set.

I'm not sure what the rules of this game was, but I know we didn't actually kill anyone.  And, honestly, we like Russians now. (Hi Russian Step-Mom!)  -- Note, this part was written before all the mess between Russia and Ukraine where my dad and stepmom live. I'm not a huge fan of those ones.

We moved from this house when I turned 12.  My sisters remember the house, but don't have the same attachment to it that I did.  They have childhood memories in the house on Pasqua whereas I was a surly teen who stayed in my room for 4 years.

I drove past this house the other day when I was in the neighbourhood.  They have cut the huge Christmas tree down from the front yard.  They removed the playset from the backyard and painted all the trim on the house blue.  It is no longer the same home I knew and has likely seen many other families since ours roamed it's narrow halls.

I loved that house and the time we spent there.

While it's true you can't go home again, it will always be one of my favourite places.

Ten years ago today

Ten years ago today, I was sleeping on the floor of the sunroom at the hospital. It was the last day. We had been preparing for over a month and today would be that day.

You never realize how long it can take a person to die.

My mother was admitted to the palliative ward two days after her birthday. She had fought Stage 4 uterine cancer for 2 full years, but that Sunday in March it became apparent, she had done all she could.  She stayed in the hospital for 32 days.

Today was the last day.



The nurses and other staff at Palliative were also her coworkers and friends of over a decade, so they moved us into the sunroom for Mom's final moments. Mom raised the funds to get the room built; it was her dream that saw it come to fruition, so was fitting she leave us in the room that she planned for others' comfort.

She didn't look like the mom I knew. The mom with fuzzy hair and brilliant eyes. The mom with strong will, quick wit, and caring heart. If I close my eyes, I can see her as the mom I knew who never changed despite any hairstyle, weight gain/loss, or denture removal.

If I close my eyes, I can see her on that last day. Battle scarred and war weary. I hate that image, but it's important.

Ten years ago, I leaned down for the last time, told her I loved her and to say hi to her cousin and my dog when she got to heaven. I wasn't scared for her.

I was scared for us.

Ten years has gone by since I lost my best friend and hero. I cannot say I regret experiencing the loss. I cannot say I wish it had never happened. Amazing things have come in the last decade that could not have happened without it.

When you lose your centre, you have to realign.

My family reached a level of independence (and yet, inter-dependence) we had never had before. My family began to spread out to explore what was beyond the borders of the "home" that no longer existed. My father and siblings each found amazing lives in far off places.

Personally, I learned to look outside my immediate family for support and friendship. I grew up. I don't believe The Guy and I would have the relationship we do if I remained the woman I was while my mother was alive. I don't know if that makes sense.

I relied on her so heavily, I believe our relationship could have been a bond insurmountable to anyone else.

Losing my mother to cancer has allowed me to be a support to others. It allowed me to bond with a client who lost his mother and was struggling. It allowed me to be present when friends saw their parent through cancer treatment. It has allowed me to be there when my other best friend died suddenly and unfairly. It allows me to be around for her children and show them there is hope and life despite the shit-tacular-ness of the present.

Somedays, I am still struck with grief. I am saddened she never saw my first house. She never met my insane dog that brought me back into the real world. She never met The Guy or saw us get married. She will miss all the big events I wanted her to be present for.

I think often we grieve the potential - the future - that could have been.

I would give anything to have my mother back, but I am thankful for all she gave me while she was alive and everything I have learned since.

Hope you're having a good time, Mom. Say hi to Grandpa, Auntie Carolyn, Uncle Lorne, and Dezi. Miss you.

Best of: my favourite of the first 50 days #100happydays

In January, I began a trek into reminding myself what makes me happy on a daily basis. I'd had a rough fall, a worse winter, and then my best friend died. This has been my daily reminder that the world was not ending.

Now, things are on the upswing. I came back from stress leave to a new position at work that I love, a constant work schedule for the first time in 15 years, new learning opportunities, the house build on track for May 1, and The Guy moved to a normal work time. It's been a whirlwind few months and I still feel like my brain hasn't caught up, but I'm enjoying it.

I decided to go through the first 50 days of my #100happydays and show you some of my favourite pictures.

Day 1                                                                        Day 30

My two guys

Warmer weather and new booties make happy puppy!

It is fitting I started this adventure with a picture of my family. They both make regular appearances throughout.  The Guy is my rock and Monty is my comfort. Whenever a bad day threatens, one of these two will make everything okay. I could not be more thankful for them.

Day 3

Poolside Cuban resort

For many years, The Guy and I have travelled to Cuba with friends. This year, The Guy booked an impromptu trip for just the two of us. We lounged, ate, drank, napped, wandered, and relaxed. It was just what we needed.  For our first "solo" trip, it was a success!

Day 11                                                                       Day 31

Winter walk with Monty

Beautiful evening sky

This winter has been the coldest I can remember. With temps dropping to -45C without accounting for the wind (which brought it down to -52C some night) it was rare we could get outside. When we did, both Monty and I relished in the freedom and the beauty. Well, he had the freedom part anyway. I just revealed in the beauty the world has for us, even when it's frozen.

Day 15

A conversation with my brother.

This conversation with my brother has exploded to new heights of torture. I put this picture on Facebook and suddenly everyone in my brother's life started posting banana facts, banana pictures, and banana paraphernalia. It has been glorious. I'm sure he's going to punch me in the nose when I see him next, but it was worth it.

Day 18

I found this pic of The Guy and me in 2012
picture by our friend Denise

This picture popped up on my radar after 2 years and sent me immediately back to that night. A warm "summer" night in Cuba with friends, laughter, my love, and the most amazing city I've ever been in. I love me some Havana.

Day 19                                                                        Day 28

Group Sudoku challenges

Animal erasers for work Sudoku challenges!

At the suggestion of a new student at our office, the workers started to do one Sudoku challenge a night. We worked on it during our breaks and began cheering each other on, correcting each other's missteps, and bonding as a team like we hadn't been able to do in a long time. I love Sudoku for this reason alone.

Day 23

Finished my llama shawl today

I began this shawl in November and finally finished it. The yarn was llama wool from a local vendor and had been purchased for me by KB years before. I was working on it the night she died and she never even knew I had started it. I'm glad to have a physical reminder of the warmth and love KB had for me.

Day 25                                                                       Day 29

The colour palette for our house

The colours and tiles for our Master Suite

Day 36

New counters and cupboards for the house

As the time to move into our new place gets closer and closer, I am preparing for how I want it all to come together. We are getting to pick out things for the house - like colours and countertop - and I am in my element. The Guy has been smart enough to stand back and watch with amusement.  He gets the garage, I get the decorating!

Day 33

Sarah and I had fun at the Science Centre

My good friend (and once neighbour), Laura, and her little imp, Sarah, invited me out to the Science Centre for the day. I had not been in many many years, so I jumped on the chance.  We explored, we played, we laughed, we took pictures of dead mice.  A good time was had by all.

Day 40                                                                        Day 49

Kid in a box

Uncle will have a good helper at the new house

Lil E (or Elizabug) has been a big part of my happiness over the last 50 days. I try to take her once a week when I can so that I can get my baby fix and her mom can finish her dissertation. E and I take on the big city, walk the dog, play at the library, refuse nap time, and generally make fools of ourselves. She brings a joy to me every time. Even when she's grumpy.

Day 41

It would have been my mom's 65th birthday

It has been almost ten years since my Mom passed and this day would have been her 65th birthday. This was the last picture taken with my mother and, though she was very ill at this point, she would fight another 2 years to make sure we were all taken care of. I miss her every day, but I'm glad I had her for the time I did.

Day 43

New hair cut!

I had slipped into the trap of not taking care of myself. I finally decided enough was enough and went to get my hair did.  My hairdresser is a great man who is very knowledgeable about curly hair. I am thankful I found him! He and his wife just had another baby, so he was brimming with father pride. That kind of happiness is contagious.

Day 48

This encouraging piece of graffiti

There are few times that graffiti makes me smile and stop to take a picture, but this one did.  It put a smile on my face for the whole day. I think the artist would be happy with his (or her) efforts.

Day 52

Signs of spring: water channels

I know I said the first 50 days, but I had to include this one.  SPRING IS HERE.  Well, sort of. It has since snowed again and reverted back to winter, but for a few fine days spring was here. We made it.

I cannot tell you all what this project has meant to me. Somedays I didn't have time to take pictures or the thing that made me happy wasn't photographable, but to have the idea in my head to search for something every day that makes me happy has been invaluable.  I think when it's done, I may have to start again!

Check out my entire collection of #100happydays pictures.
Follow me and see them first hand on my Instagram page.

Haunted by the ghost of coincidence

My mom says hi.

At least, that's the joke I have had going this week because of how often things about her have been popping up randomly.  It's been 10 years on April 9th since she died of cancer, so I was aware there would be memorials and pictures and all that, but I didn't expect this.

Last week, after 10 years, I accidentally called my mom's old work number.

image via

Mom used to work for the health district. All numbers in health start with 766 and the last four digits are different. I was calling an agency in the health district that I call numerous times a week. I wasn't thinking about their number because it's ingrained in my head.

Suddenly I looked down at the display on the phone and realized I had not called them. I had called Mom's work number.  I hung up and shook my head.  Where did that come from?

When I mentioned it to my siblings, my brother asked "Did she answer?" and I stole a line that my friend KB used to say when someone asked her about talking to her (deceased) mother "I would be significantly more excited if she had!"

Fast forward to this week.  I had applied for a new credit card to put all my business expenses on (and, honestly, to get a bonus air miles deal).  It arrived in the mail and I set up the activation.  The website reminded me to look at the PIN they sent me for when I make direct purchases. I opened up the little flap and damn near fell over.

It was my mom's four digits of her work phone number.

Happy birthday, Mom.

Today is my Mom's birthday. She would have been 65 years old.

What do you say about a woman who meant everything to you, but who has been gone for so many years?

She was my best friend and my hero. A woman I wanted to be exactly like, but also whom I learned a lot from in what not to do. She owned both her triumphs and her mistakes with the knowledge they shaped her to be more than she was. She was strong and capable, loving and comforting, wise and silly.

Ten years later and I still have such vivid memories.

Our first mother/daughter photo

• The smell of Taboo lingering on your clothes after she hugged you.
• The smell of baked bread on Thursday afternoons.
• Her watching sports on her little TV in the kitchen - hands on her hips, one foot perched on the opposite thigh. 
• Her relationship with my dog, Dez. Dez might have lived with me, but she was my Mom's dog.
• Her loud and exuberant laugh that let you know she was enjoying something or someone. You could find her in any crowd with that laugh.
• The fuzzy hair. We would find her in stores by looking for the fuzz of dark hair over the shelves. I still see that hair every once in awhile and it takes me back.
• How much she loved me. I still remember that every day.

Our last mother / daughter picture

Happy birthday, Mom.

The wonderful roller coaster that is aging

I'm not afraid of growing older. I don't know if I have ever been, but for that 3 month period before I turned 30 when I realized I'd be a grown up.

My mom used to say I'd been 42 since I was 6, so I guess my body has just been catching up with my soul. I'm okay with that.

I don't fear death, so I gather that is why I don't worry about getting closer to it. I'm not itching to get there, by any means, but I approach it with the curiosity of an anthropologist in another culture. "Oh, that's what it's like!"

My mother was afraid of getting older. She had good reason - she had watched her father spiral into Alzheimer's and become someone none of us recognized.  It's difficult to watch the person you knew die before your eyes and be replaced with a confused, angry, helpless old man. Mom dreaded becoming that -- losing herself.

I wonder, had she known she would never age beyond 55 years, would she have been able to relax? Knowing my mother? No. Relaxing wasn't in her nature.

I've now watched the life cycles of two important women in my life come to an end or near the end in two totally different times of their lives. My mother at 55 and my grandmother in her 90s. Grandma is still going relatively strong, but it's been interesting to see how she has forayed into this end of her life.

Aging isn't graceful. However, the person going into aging can be. My mother transformed at 50. She blossomed and became the woman who she had always meant to be but was hidden under a surface of insecurity and worry.

Mom and Dad circa 2000

Mom turned 50, said "Eff it!" and exploded into herself. Sure, she had sagging skin, chin hairs, and hot flashes, but what physically was occurring in her aging process was completely overshadowed by her self discovery.

I think Grandma has always been herself. Or, she has always been who she knew she needed to be.  Grandma is so much "Acts of Service" she would temper herself to be what we all needed.  That being said, her sense of humour and rebellious nature that lay just below the surface would peek its head out, say something outrageous, and pop back in like nothing was out of place.

photo by Ky

Physically, though Grandma was wee, she was mighty. Walking up and down 20 stairs to and from her apartment numerous times a day kept her strong. Even today, she can out lift, out run, and out work anyone I've ever met.  Mentally, she has slipped bit by bit into forgetfulness. (Or, as we call it - 5 second memory reset.)  Grandma is still who she ever was (unlike her husband at the end) but forgets people, places and things for brief or extended periods of time.

I don't worry that memory lost or physical deterioration will get me. Each - if they occur - will be an adventure. Sure, I might not remember the adventure, but it still will be! I'm not looking forward to wetting my pants regularly or forgetting where I live, but that's how life goes and I plan to enjoy all of it.

I figure, if I make it past 55, I'm good until I'm 90.  Ride on.

The quiet of the night: Post from the past

Originally written August 2011 though I thought it more fitting for the quiet that only comes with a cold winter night.
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Late in the night has always been my favourite time of day.  I love to wander the house at night while the world is quiet and soft.  The only noise is the tick of the clock, the noise of my footsteps and the breath of my companions lost in their dreams.

Even when I go to bed at a decent hour, I rise in the middle of the night.  It's been this way since I was young.  I never wanted to sleep at night.  It always seemed as though I was missing something.  As I grew older, I realized what it was: the night time.  I use the night time for soul searching, for relaxing, to recharge.  I use the night for getting things done, for doing nothing and for thinking grand thoughts or none at all.

My old house mid-winter night

My mother used to do the same.  She would always go to bed at the same time as my father.  He worked early and long days, so they would go off to sleep together -- we could hear the quiet tones of discussion that encompassed the day's events and the week's plans.  Then, when my father slept, my mother crept from the bed and wandered the house in the quiet.  She would write letters to friends, she would cross stitch, she would read -- but mostly, she would revel in the time alone.

I was in my teens before I consciously noticed her habit of wandering during the night.  I am sure she did it throughout my life.  It seemed to me she liked best to sit at the table and write.  She was known for long letters to friends and family -- tidbits about her day and ours; funny thoughts and observations; deep thoughts and words of advice.

It is in the middle of the night I feel closest to my mother now.  I like to think of her sitting in the compatible silence recharging her batteries and finally relaxing for a few minutes.  I like to think of her there, quietly writing as the dogs, the children and the husband slept in the other rooms.

As I sit here and write -- to my friends and family -- I like to think of her and thank her for the love of the quiet of the night.

I owe it all to my Mom and Mavis Beacon

I am working on a "project" where I need to prove my typing speed.  Once I have more solid information on said project, I will expand.  However, for now, I will just tell you I had to go and take a typing test from a recognized agency that will provide me with a certificate of my skillz.

Yes, skillz.  Typing be all gangsta, yo.

I was trying it out.  I will stop now.

It has often been suggested to me I have been in the wrong line of work.  Sure "helping people" is noble and all, but my passions lie in other places. I love to organize, to file, to photocopy! Don't even get me started on creating spreadsheets. SWOON!  I inherited all these dorky traits from my mother.  She went to secretarial school, aced it, became valedictorian, and then took over the world.

Despite my love of all things secretarial, I never took a typing class.  When I was in school we were moving from typing on actual typewriters (I'm THAT old) to using computers.  I learned how to make my Commodore 64 scroll endless "I love Brad"s across the screen but never learned proper finger placement for the keyboard.  I think I took Home EC instead.  You can see that has really served me well.

When my family finally got a computer at home I would have been about 15 or so.  We had three things we could do on that computer: use the word processor, play Hugo III: Jungle of Doom, or use the typing teacher tool by Mavis Beacon. (Aside: did you know Mavis Beacon isn't even a real person? CHILDHOOD RUINED.)

Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing was the only other thing on our computer.  Once I had rescued Hugo's girlfriend from the jungle, there was really little else to do but sit in front of Mavis and follow the instructions.  Words would fall out of the sky and you had to type them before they hit the ground.  It was all very exciting.

Might I mention, this was the early 90s.  We had nothing else going on.

Fast forward many years, I have used my Mavis born typing skills to create hundreds and hundreds of reports.  Co-workers have always teased me about my typing speed because most of them have done the hunt and peck variety of one digit typing.  Once, I even had a client yell at me for typing too loud and too fast while she gave me information.  I figured I was just average.

This week, I scheduled my typing test and went in to take it.  I was nervous.  I had never tried to type in front of anyone for any real reason. I sat down and was faced with copying two paragraphs in a constant loop (much like my Commodore) for two separate 5 minute tests.

I sat down at a strange computer, strange keyboard, and strange surroundings.  I could only backspace and couldn't point and click onto a mistake if it happened way before.  I sat stick straight, breathed deeply, and put my fingers on the "f" and the "j".  I harnessed my inner Mom and Mavis mojo and went for it.

I came out with 62 words/minute on the first trial and 60 on the second.  Accuracy rate was 98%.  I left there with wings on my shoes and a feeling of accomplishment.  I can't do much else in life, but I can make the keyboard fly!

The Guy said he wasn't surprised I did so well.  He has seen me "angry type" before and is more shocked my keyboard doesn't burst into flames.

Next time, I will get really mad before hand and see if I can get my speed up to 70!