Community life in a small town

Until the third year of our marriage, I had spent all of my life living in the city.  Dave, on the other hand, grew up most of his childhood on the farm in a hamlet of under 200 people.  When we were barely two years married, he moved me one hour outside of Ottawa to a town of 8500.  Surprisingly, I loved it.  Granted, that town still had a few gyms, some box stores, a decent downtown, a movie theatre and coffee shops.  We spent the next four years in that town and, despite not finding a niche into which we fit well, I made good friends and appreciated our life there.  I joke that Dave had to move me up the Valley in stages:  first the city, then the town, and now the village.  Perhaps one day, maybe, the farm; not now, though.

After our four years in the town, Dave transferred jobs and we moved to our present village of 1300 people.  In summer, when the cottagers arrive, it swells to 5000.  The arrival of the non-locals is what many regard as a necessary evil.  Economically this area could not survive without the purchasing power of the folks from away.   Nevertheless, the big-city ways, uber-trendy clothes, increased traffic, incredibly expensive vehicles, and foul mouths in the grocery store (really!) are obvious even to the moderately-trained eye.  These are not all the cottagers; but a fair number of them really do fill the stereotype.

During the winter months (which, unfortunately, comprise a majority of the year) we live the real life of a very small town.  Certain shops close down, gas can't be found after 10pm, the emergency room is the walk-in clinic, and one had better fill any prescriptions before 6:30pm.  I think that many would feel claustrophobic living within such constraints.  Much of my family worried that I would be unable to bear such a life.  My aunt, who has lived here for thirty years, joked that I was too cosmopolitan for this area.  Not so, dear auntie.  However, as a concession to my aunt's insight, I will sadly admit to filling the stereotype of the city girl until I moved here.  I remember visiting little places like here when I was a teen and in my early twenties. I would scoff at the outdated haircuts, the funny accents and the lack of sophistication.  I have been humbled.  These small-town characteristics have become things that I love and greatly appreciate.  In a certain sense, one can become one's self within such a milieu.

And, in truth, I have flourished in this little place.  It is unlike any other area that I have visited or lived.  My dad jokes that we don't really live in Canada here:  traditional values are strong, faith is real, and helping hands are true to their word.  Of course, along with the advantages come the entrenched biases; family feuds are very real; rednecks with actual rednecks are abundant in the summer; camouflage is always the new black; and gossip is constant.  One has to learn to navigate around and through the downside which, in a certain regard, is a necessary evil.  Also, not having grown up here, I can only imagine a young person's desire to break free and escape to the big city.  (Funny how so many of them want to come back, though.)

I think that this small town has a special ingredient that has added a distinct and improving flavour.  Due to the presence of Madonna House, Our Lady Seat of Wisdom Academy, the back-to-the-landers, and a number of faithful apostolates that have come and gone throughout the years, there exists here a unique blend of descendants of Irish and Polish pioneers side by side with academics, professionals, hippies, visiting students, and others who prevent the inevitable stagnant life of the typical small town.  There is an incredibly unique blend of people that makes for culture, troubling differences, and, if one has an eye for it, tremendous humour.  Trust me, Sunday mass and the ensuing gatherings in the parking lot can leave me in stitches.

Growing up in Halifax (which many say is a small town that thinks it is a big city), one of my mom's friends used to say, "You could never have an affair in this town:  the neighbours would know before you had your pants down."  Yes, a little crude, but also very true.  The living-in-one-another's-pockets' aspect of a small town can be its greatest failing as well as its most formidable offering.  In truth, I think that one can find this sort of community in a big city as well.  One might have to look a little harder, but it can be found; it's just that it comes a little easier when the population is tiny.

What got me thinking about this is a relationship that I have forged with one of the cashier's at the grocery store.

Dave teaches one of her sons and for five years I have made my way through her cash to enjoy a little conversation - sometimes mundane; at times, much more intimate.  She is a wonderful woman:  simple in that country sort of way; joyful, dissolving into tearful laughter at the slightest provocation; and generous - oh my, is she generous.  You might recall an incident around nine months ago when a cashier, thinking that I was a friend who had recently moved back to town, paid for my groceries?  Well, that cashier is this woman.

Dave arrived home from school yesterday with the sad news that she has kidney cancer.  She is only in her mid-forties with three sons still at home.  Her husband works at the local mill and they live a lifestyle typical of many around here - frugal, simple and connected to the land and family.  I hugged her today on her last shift and told her that I would be praying for her and would help in anyway I could.  She laughed and told me that I was too busy already.  Oh my.  I am determined to somehow help her as she begins this journey.  I imagine that the community that is the grocery store will pull together and care for her with great generosity.  And, in a community where having family and multiple cousins determines one's standing, she is blessed.  I still want to help.

I don't really know why I am writing this.  I guess I'm asking you to pray for her, but also realizing how thankful I am to live in a place where anonymity is impossible.  Some might find this stifling; I, on the other hand, have found it strangely liberating.

We have been given a great gift in this hometown of ours.  I do hope that I can give back.

Eleven Years

 Hannah and Jacob celebrated their birthday with friends the Sunday before their actual birthday.  We decided that an appropriate activity would be a cake-decorating competition.  Both groups (arranged by gender) were given a square chocolate cake, a round vanilla cake, icing and several toppings.

 Truthfully, I didn't expect much of the boys.  (Sorry.)  Therefore, I was happily surprised by their creation.  I did, however, expect that the boys' cake would make use of every single topping.  They didn't disappoint.

 The girls' cake was a little less crowded, to say the least.  We judged them on creativity, use of icing, theme, use of toppings, edibility, and (the whammer) cleanliness.  It was the last category that gave the girls the victory.  The girls put their dishes and knives away and wiped the counter clean.  The boys, ummm, licked the bowl.  Thus, the boys lost five points due to their miserable attempts at order and the girls took the competition.  The boys also fell behind in the edibility category due to their foregoing of icing knives, and using their hands instead.  Boys, let these be a life-long lessons to you.

 Can you see the little frogs on the girls' cake?  They cut jelly beans in half and fastened silver balls on for eyes using icing.  Very, very cute.

 Sarah really liked the competition results, as well as the many older sisters upon whose laps she sat throughout the afternoon and evening.

 My Happy Birthday banner.  Dave saw it and said, "So, we're Buddhists now?"  Appropriation of symbols, darling.

 Here they are on their actual birthday looking so very, very grown up.  Jacob is starting to look older than Hannah due to his size.  He got new glasses (just like Dave's), and now he looks like a member of the NASA launch team during the 1960s.  We bought them both a new outfit.  Typically, I am guilty of one huge fail on every birthday.  This year the prize went to my buying (for Hannah) of the exact same coral jeans that I had bought her only one month previous.  She was very gentle with me.

 These vests were a gift from Dave's parents.  Dave and I gave them watches - and now I am aware of time in a whole new way:  "Mom, mass is 32 seconds late."  Thank you, Hannah.

I couldn't resist, sorry.  Can you tell what I am re-creating?  Yes, you're right:  it's the twins in the womb!  Sorry if that's a little weird, but a mother falls prey to strange moments of nostalgia.  Very telling of their cresting into adolescence is that this photo embarrassed them both.  Hannah remarked to Jacob that embarrassing children is part of a mother's job profile.  As long as that is understood.  My dear twinlets, you are a continual source if joy.  Many, many more years.  (Mom, her birthday dress will appear in the Easter post.)

An anniversary worth noting

This week, although known as Holy Week to the universal Christian Church, also goes by the name of birthday week at our house.  The twins turn eleven on the 17th, Holy Thursday; they were born eleven years ago on Holy Thursday.  This is the first time in their short lifetimes that the two days have once again coincided.  Thus, you will soon be inundated with photos of yesterday's birthday party and the actual birthday in three days time.  However, this is not the anniversary about which I am writing.

Today, April 14th, is the day that Isaac was airlifted to CHEO with pneumonia (and dehydration).  As a result, the twins' tenth birthday party was cancelled, and rescheduled again and again, until it was finally celebrated as an eleventh birthday party.  Mea culpa.

I went for a walk today with Isaac and Sarah to take advantage of the beautiful spring weather.  We picked up a little friend along the way and played on the grounds of our church, overlooking the lake.  It was a terribly windy day; huge gusts that sent clouds of dust hurtling our way.  During one of these gusts I heard a sound other than the wind and looked up to see the air ambulance heading toward the hospital.  I grabbed Isaac's attention and pointed to the chopper as it circled the hospital attempting to land.  The winds were so strong that at one point it looked as if the chopper would land on the lawn of the church rather than the landing pad (over one kilometre away).  In fact, it seemed to circle us and we ran to watch its path.  Isaac pointed to the sky and asked, "Did I go in that, Mommy?"  I assured him that he had and he responded, "But I couldn't see you, Mommy."  I explained that he couldn't see me because he was lying on my lap while the two of us rode on the stretcher.  He looked up again and asked, "Is Jesus in there?"  I answered that He sure was and laughed to think that Isaac will probably always have an association with Jesus and helicopters.

And then I looked at my watch and noted with surprise that it was almost the exact the time at which
Isaac had been airlifted from our little hospital last year.  Amazing the workings of the Lord.  You might be thinking, "There she goes again with the pneumonia story and supposed coincidences."
That's OK with me.  That helicopter circling over Isaac and me as we stood in the church parking lot only steps away from Our Lord in the Blessed Sacrament was much more than a coincidence.  It was a tremendous consolation.

Enough WIWS; it's springtime!

 This was Monday when the temperatures "soared" into the double digits, by one degree.  It was so "hot" that Hannah insisted on putting up an umbrella to shield her delicate sock-clad feet from overheating.  Delicate creature, that one.

 Beach towels, crackers, juice and Bits'n'Bites were hauled out to the front porch where we lazed in the sun and tried to restore our Vitamin D tanks to full.  Joe enjoyed a moment as a smouldering six-year-old hunk.

 Oh my, it has been a long winter.  They say that this has been the worst winter in 30 years.  I don't know who they are, but I believe them.  When I was visiting Texas at Christmas time, I overheard my mother telling someone that winter is six months long where I live.  I scoffed and said, "More like four months."  How wrong was I.  However, all things are being made new; there is still a lot of snow to melt but the white stuff is slowly disappearing and the various shades of early-spring brown are starting to appear.

 It is difficult for Jacob to wear socks on the deepest of winter days; thus, once any warmth is felt, the socks come off for good.  (Until his father, who is mortally opposed to bare feet in any season other than summer, catches sight of Jacob's bare tootsies.)

 We were so filled with spring fever (like calves on spring pasture) that we bounced around our barnyard like madmen drunk on the first taste of new life.  Actually, we played Crazy Olympics for two hours straight.  This entailed the craziest of games:  like surfing that car (upon which Jacob is riding) down the driveway and back up again.  My muscles were so sore the next day that I thought I had come down with a flu.  Until this game I had never noticed that our driveway is on a slight incline on the way back up.

 I was so pathetic at most events that Ben said, "Mommy, I feel really bad for you.  You're really horrible at most of these races."

But then came pulling Sarah in the wagon from the garage to the turn in the drive and back.  The distance was so short that for once my height advantage over the kids was able to catapult me into first place.  Ben was only slightly less embarrassed.

 Isaac kept insisting on wearing my sunglasses whenever he spotted planes passing over.  By the time he had the glasses on, the planes had passed by.

Wonderful to see this guy so healthy:  we are coming on the one year anniversary of The Great Pneumonia Escapade.  My mind is only half convinced that it won't happen again; my mind still insists (in its less rational moments) that all childhood illnesses now end in, if not pneumonia, then definitely hospitalisation.  Hopefully April 13-17 will be far less traumatic this year.