Some memories are kept in a secure car on life's train; others are just passing through.  As we shuffle the cars, let's always be the smiling conductor!

The Memory Station

If I forget to tell you
What it is I just forgot,
Please don't think
That I don't care,
Or that my memory's shot;
My thoughts are simply racing
Around a busy track,
And may have missed
A stop or two,
Or have fallen
Through a crack,
But not to worry,
I'll keep pulling
Memories from  my pack
Till what it was
That I forgot,
Remembers to come back!

 

A memory gives us a chance to time travel!  How do you make a memory—a happening that touches the soul and stays?  We all have hurtful images from the past that can hang on and hold our hearts captive, robbing us of our potential to create joy, but warm memories, the best ones, happen when we are taken by surprise; they are able to stir a huge heartfelt laugh, or maybe a tear.  Memories grow stronger and more precious when they are shared—let's get busy and start building that time machine, with the cogs of our honest, humble foibles and in the beautiful gifts that lie within each of us.

                                                Love forgave, kindness smiled, and hope grew a precious memory.

 

The Gift

 

There are gifts that we give

To the ones that we love

That leave rare and indelible marks;

Little glimpses of something

That words can't explain,

Scripted in thoughts

That weave their refrain,

Playing time and again in our hearts;

 

There are moments we touch,

Without touching at all,

When we meet in our memory room;

When a smile meets a smile,

There is healing that happens;

We're reminded that hope

Lies within every challenge,

Within every gift still to come;

 

There are beautiful treasures

To gather and share,

Memories to make every day;

As we clear a place for them,

Let their roots grow,

Their buds are just waiting

For someone to say,

"Can your happy memories come out and play?"

 

At My Mother's Knee

Some memories never fade away,

And that's as it should be,

When they take me back to happy times

And quiet moments  when I'd  find

Myself at Mother's knee.

Special secrets I would share,

Secret hurts and fears,

Nothing seemed too silly there,

With soothing words and hugs to spare,

She'd wipe away my tears.

I'd place my head upon her lap

And feel her hands' caressing,

What peace I felt as I knelt there ,

 Her fingers in my tousled hair,

Receiving mother's blessing.

She'd wrap me in her mother's care,

My smile was her reward;

No one could resist her grin

And soon the giggles would begin,

Good humour was restored.

Those special moments live in me

In love they have been set,

All those lovely memories

Bring me often to my knees

I feel her softness yet.

I close my eyes and hear her voice,

So musical and mild;

No greater gift could ever be,

Than hearing my mom pray for me,

Now I pray for you, my child.

Huddling Together At Christmas!

Perhaps it's this fresh fall of snow that has me thinking back to our little home and how much Christmas meant to all of us.  It was the great equalizer - every child had the same chance to get onto Santa's 'nice' or 'naughty' list, and we all shared the same hope  - that the Child in the Manger came for everyone.

I took a mental trip back home, and put some thoughts down in the form of this poem - I hope that it touches the little child in all of you as we huddle together in the warmth of this Christmas season. 

 Huddling Together At Christmas!

Huddling together

By the old oil stove,

With the sound of the wind in the chimney flue;

There's snow on the roof

And it pounds on the door

And the ice has the windowsill stuck like glue!

But oh, the excitement

That fills the air,

For, it's Christmas Eve and there's hope all around,

The wind's no match

For the strength of our song

As our voices join in glorious sound.

We've hung our stockings

And said our prayers,

Put on our pajamas and hopped into bed,

With our eyes closed tight

Can we make it through the night?

I won't let the Sandman see me raise my head!

At light of dawn,

On Christmas morn',

We're huddling together 'neath the Christmas tree,

There's candy, nuts,

And colouring books,

And packaged surprises - Whose will they be?

With Dad on guitar,

We giggle out songs,

If we miss some words, we don't mind in the least,

The smell of the turkey

Fills the house,

And mom is the artist who creates our feast!

These Christmas memories

Come back each year;

They lift my heart and make me smile; 

Though the wind blew fierce,

Outside our door,

Our home fed the hope of this little child!

The Power Of A Quilt!

I know I wasn't feeling cold last night - perhaps it's the onset of Fall weather, and the promise of Winter, with all of its uncertainties, but I awoke at  3am, thinking about the multi-coloured crazy quilt that used to cover Mom & Dad's bed so many years ago.   I can remember sitting on that quilt with my sisters and playing travelling games on the beautiful landscape that we saw there; so many vibrant colours and textures - it fuelled our young imaginations!   I began wondering who had stitched that quilt - where all of the patches had originated - what clothing had been transformed.   As I wrapped myself in that warm memory, my older imagination kicked in and, lost in contemplation, I wrote the following poem:

My Crazy Quilt

Memories fade, and friends move on,

But in my heart they're bound;

I've pulled them into my crazy quilt

And stitched them all around.

I've pricked my finger many times,

But I soon forget the pain,

For my crazy quilt is a wondrous quilt,

That can never be made again.

I pull it 'round me every night

And I feel the love that's there,

All stitched up in my crazy quilt,

Each friend, a colour rare.

I've  travelled tracks, this way and that,

All up and down my life,

Those crooked stitches, funny patches,

Daughter, mother, wife.

My fingers trace the criss-cross path

That joins each memory,

And I wonder at the landscape fair

That my life has come to be.

As I live each day, I'll find a way

To gather patches new,

I'll pull them into my crazy quilt,

And I'll stitch them carefully too.

When the world seems scary, dark and dim,

I won't despair or moan,

For I'll feel the warmth of my crazy quilt,

And know I'm not alone.

Counting To Ten!

 

So, there I was, holding up a bank this morning - ?

Actually, what I was holding up was a repository - of countless prayers, my mother's prayers, as I picked up her rosary this morning.  Prayer beads have been used in many religions for centuries - the word being derived from the old English noun 'bede' meaning prayer, and while there is no power in the beads themselves, they can be a valuable tool in meditative prayer.  It is what the beads absorbed from my mom's hands that gave them their value - the warmth of her love and simple faith as she hung onto those beads and poured her heart out.  Holding onto the rosary was like holding onto a lifeline for mom - a rope of beads strung together in groups of ten that helped to keep her life in order - counting to ten can be not only a mom's powerful threat, but also her private salvation.

Her prayer beads were an instrument  that she had learned to play very well.  I can remember her taking out her rosary, closing her eyes, and softly beginning to pray as soon as she heard of someone in the family needing help.  If you were present, you automatically added your voice, your prayer, your 'bede' to her sincere faith-filled ones.

 She could be depended on to hang that rosary out on the clothesline for each wedding or special outdoors event; an outward sign and challenge to the weatherman to dare defy the work that she put into making sure that the beads were fully charged with fresh prayers.  And although we inwardly smiled and joked about this, I can't remember a time that her challenge was met with anything more than a few sprinkles of rain - not all of the drops had gotten the memo! 

 Perhaps it is the same way with other mementos that our loved ones have worn or used countless times - we hold on, with respect, to favourite pieces of clothing or jewellery, dishes or cups, but what is special about a mother's instrument of prayer, whether it is a well-worn rosary, a set of knitting needles, or a daily journal, is that it has been a confidant, sharing her innermost struggles, hopes, fears, and a whole pile of her concentrated love.  So, I will continue to pick up those beads as I pray for all who are in my heart;  

Don't make me count to ten - because I will!  That's not a threat - It's a promise!

This Old House

This Old House

 

"This old house once knew my children
This old house once knew my wife
This old house was home and shelter as we fought the storms of life
This old house once rang with laughter
This old house heard many shouts
Now she trembles in the darkness when the lightnin' walks about"

                                                ...Stuart Hamblen, 1954

 

These nostalgic lyrics have been going around in my head for a long time now, and have become more poignant with the recent sale of our family home on the Rideau River.  It is the inevitable decision that more and more of us boomers are having to make: Our old house had certainly held on as long as it could, thanks to the heroic efforts of my sister and brother, and as it packed its bags to say goodbye, it delayed its departure for more year to give our family time to pick out some mementos and take a few more looks at the beautiful view down the river.  

Memories come flooding back of games of hide-and-seek out of doors until it was too dark to see anymore; of late night swims in the heat of summer to cool us off so we could sleep, of endless sing-a-longs and parties and sharing; of heading to the garden with Dad - a slice of bread in hand for a fresh green onion sandwich, of walks down the road to the one-room schoolhouse, to Rideau Valley Inn, Margaret Kelly's raspberry patch, and to all of the childhood haunts that remain engraved in my heart.

If houses absorb spirits, then that old house was certainly spirit filled.  It was the great Santa Claus, Easter Bunny, and Tooth Fairy secret keeper, guardian of the many whispers of untold prayers from Mom & Dad and all  of us children alike, and the forbearing audience for all of our crazy antics and play acting.  I'm sure it must have closed its eyes and grimaced as it silently endured the graffiti and the countless blows that we kids in our exuberance, inflicted on its walls and  floors. 

As I reflect on all of the love that is our parents legacy, and of the house that contained so much of it, I am reminded of Aunt Mamie's words of wisdom: "Make beautiful memories" - They form a foundation that will last forever - like the one that held up our old house.

A Great Big Warm 'Boot To The Head'!

A Great Big Warm ‘Boot To The Head’!

We could all use one, every once in awhile!  Listening to Mary Chapin Carpenter singing ‘Grow Old Along With Me’ and along came that big fuzzy boot – knocking me on the side of the head and giving my heart a good kick in the process.   It’s amazing what music can do: jolt you back to exact times and places, and bring the people that you love into sharper focus.  My memory, not great at the best of times, (and don’t get me started on names!) is somehow given turbo boost when music is playing.  So many beautiful lives and events come in and out of focus, like precious flowering herbs – balms that have been there to feed and heal my life.

As we get further from our starting point, the map becomes very complicated – and in my case, fuzzy - and we forget where we started out, where we stood when that seed of love was planted in us, encasing a child’s hopeful faith that everything would be bright and beautiful.  It was planted in each of us, and left in our care to nurture and protect – and to fall absolutely in love with.

Lately, my mind is pulling on its own boots, kicking up a fuss and telling me that I’d better add some colour to this grey matter - fast!  Just when I think I have figured out some of the big issues, my spirit gives a big sigh, picks up one of those boots and whack!  ‘Sorry, you have landed on a snake and have to go back and try again to figure life out.’  So, I pick up my humility card and start out afresh with my little bag of hope in tow, picking up new perspectives, new colours for my garden.

That original plant is still calling out as well and patiently waiting for me to stop covering my head, and to notice the ‘with love’ salutations that accompany the boots.

‘Don’t worry about those weeds’, it is saying – ‘just pour on the nourishment!’

Though the road may bring twists, turns, sorrows and challenges, love, wearing its great big fuzzy boots, is ready to take on all challengers.  

“Don’t be afraid of the odd kick, and don’t worry – I am custom-sized just for you – Stay with me - ‘The best is yet to be’.”