Rainbow Woman

© by Bella Lori Gagnon, June 2012, Winnipeg, MB

I am as diverse as the colours in a rainbow.  Sometimes I am warm and bright, yellow and hot, the sun.  Other times I am orange and gay, bright and bold, a poppy blowing in the morning breeze.  Sometimes I am calm and mellow green, rejuvenating.   I can be passion red, vibrant, powerful.  Other times I am cool, calm, palest blue or intense peacock azure, a tropical ocean reef.  Sometimes I am very royal, all purple, violet and indigo.  I can be white, pure, cold and driven or I can black, dark, mysterious and magical.  I can also be the many shades of grey between black and white.  Soft cloud gray, billowing and enveloping, comfortable “sweats” grey, soft fleece against cold skin.  Then I can be dark, gloomy grey, piling thunder clouds just waiting to burst with dramatic forks, flashes and claps, driving rain and maybe some hail pelting down.  No matter what colour I am on any given day, I will open my arms to embrace my rainbow women.

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Pink Snow, Red Jelly

© by Bella Lori Gagnon, March 2012, Winnipeg, MB

Every spring, the crab apple tree in the back yard of the house I grew up in, would turn into a gloriously queenly profusion of sweetly scented pale pink blossoms.  That softly sweet smell, seductively hinted at something more to come, if one could only be patient.

The magical display would bless us for a few precious days and then it would happen.  A hearty spring wind would blow in during the early hours of the morning and it snowed soft pale pink petals. I would awake, and look out of the dining room window through sleepy eyes, to discover the green lawn had disappeared under an inch of the fresh pink spring snow.

It was to a young child, quite extraordinary.

Spring would run into summer, the pink snow long blown or washed away by spring breezes and rain showers.  By then, that crab apple tree would be loaded with small green fruit.  As the long hot days of summer meandered on, I never paid it much attention.  I was too busy; riding my bike, playing in my sandbox, trying to stay cool by spending hours running through the lawn sprinkler, skipping, and playing hopscotch and hide and seek with the neighbourhood gang.

However, as autumn approached, it did not escape my notice that the apples had ripened into a deep, almost burgundy red.  I always dared to eat a few, despite my Mom’s warning that they were sour and would give me a belly ache.  And so they were, sour that is.  I never ate enough to get the warned of belly ache and I thought them much better tasting than the berries off the honeysuckle bushes.  I was not supposed to eat those either, but I always snuck a few despite the, “they are poisonous” warning from a worried faced Mom.

When the crab apples started to fall off the tree, I along with my Dad, where given a plastic pail by Mom and we started to pick the crab apples.  I did all the lower branches where I could reach, and Dad and Mom did the higher branches.   Dad always insisted that we get every single apple so they would not fall into the lawn, rot, and make a mess.

I secretly kept a few aside and when no one was looking, I laid them along the sidewalk at the side of the house for the crows.   They did not seem to think them so sour as to get a bellyache.  They would gleefully eat as many as I would put there for them.

After the picking, the kitchen would become a beehive of activity, and I was always warned to stay out from underfoot.  The kitchen counter was lined with recently boiled jelly jars and a big pot simmered on the stove.  Mom, wearing the obligatory bib and skirt apron, would be busy pulling stems off the crab apples.   Then she would boil them up along with sugar and other, unknown to me, ingredients.  I would often watch from the back landing.   Sitting on the landing steps, I watched as she worked, seeing that wonderful smelling bright red goo that the apples had turned into, being ladled into all those small glass jars.

The wonder of the spring blossoms and pink snow had been painstakingly changed into red jelly, a treasure to be enjoyed all winter on morning toast or before bedtime on homemade biscuits.

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The Window

© by Bella Lori Gagnon,  2010,  Winnipeg, MB       For Sara

Through my good eye, the one that is not swollen shut, I watch the spring day unfold.  Through streaks of dirt, the sun’s light shines it warmth on my face, a healing force to the wounds and bruises it finds there.  I dare a small smile at the squirrels that are just outside my window.  They jubilantly chase each other through the trees that are sporting new spring greenery.  I am filled with a hard longing to be out in that sunshine, to be running free like those squirrels.  The front door a story below slams shut and swearing and heavy footsteps assault my ears.  I turn away from the glimpse of freedom the window has so fleetingly provided.  I now face my jailor in the doorway.  A drunken, brute of a husband, who after time at the bar with his friends, is always ready to lay a beating on.

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Blue and Pink Letters

© by Lori Gagnon,    February 18, 2012,  Winnipeg, MB

Written at Seasons of the Heart Transformative Writing work shop, Winnipeg, MB

Because you loved me, I long to look back over the long meandering letters you wrote to me when I was a young girl.  Your penmanship was a hard to decipher scrawling scratch that filled every inch, front and back, top to bottom of thin, crisp blue airmail sheets.  Often, there were three or four of them packed in each blue envelope I received from your Niagara Falls address.  You were my first contact with a free flow writer.  You wrote straight from your heart to the page, no worries about spelling, grammar, or punctuation.  Your sentences often meandered for over a page.  How magically wonderful!

You probably never knew what those letters meant to a young girl who felt inadequate in so many ways. In those days before cell phones, iPads, email, Twitter and Facebook, before there was even a telephone in every room in the house, letters were a major deal in personal communication.  Our household’s phone was located on a table in the busy hallway between the living room, the front door and the kitchen. It held no allure as a private or personal means of communication.  But a letter, personally delivered by the local mail man, that was an eagerly awaited for treasure.

You were my first and best pen pal.  Like Transformative writing power notes, I would read your letters at least twice, once for my head and once for my heart.  Sitting at the kitchen table, with eager hands I would open the blue packet.  Then I would read it to Mom, a kind of requirement at the stage of my childhood.  Private anything was not encouraged then or at any other time come to think of it.  She would listen while she puttered between the sink and the stove, commenting occasionally, but mostly just giving her head a nod here and there.  That was the once for my head.  Then as soon as I had the chance I would retreat to me room, grab my favorite blanket and a flashlight and head for the closet.  Enfolded in fuzzy green and purple stripped wool, flashlight held between my knees, I would sit in the dark and I would read your letter again, glorious word by word.  That was the once for my heart.  In reality, each and every one of your letters would be read over and over and over.

Do I now remember the content of even one of those beloved blue epistles?  I do not.  What I do remember is how they made a little girl feel, like I mattered, like I was special, that I was old enough to have a personal correspondence with an adult.

Writing letters back to my Grandma Doris was my own first experience of writing.  I remember buying airmail letters that were paper and envelope all in one at Couton’s Variety Store.  It was very important in those bygone days to use airmail stationary to save on postage.  I would have a hard time containing everything I wanted to write to her in the confines of those blue folding airmail paper and envelope combinations.  What a joy when I got my first real stationary to write my letters to her on.  Peony pink paper with matching envelopes packaged in a folding clear plastic folder.  It gave me the freedom to write as many pages as I wanted to, freedom to write until I had nothing else to say.

To this day, pink stationary always reminds me of Grandma Doris, my childhood muse.

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Valentines Stories – February Diamonds in the Rough

Thursday, Feb 9, 2012 Diamond in the Rough (Transformative Writing Alumni) Meeting, at Gaylene’s @7:40 pm

The theme tonight is angels and the many faces of love.  The trigger table is a collection of lovely small angel statues, all doing something or holding something different.  Our writing table is ablaze with angel candle holders down it’s center.

Focus Reading – “Things I learned about Friendship, Love & Life”, author unknown.

I am aware that on a scale of 1-10, I am about a 7.  I feel I should be a lot lower because I am still grieving the loss of my Dad.  However, being with my “Diamonds” will always take me up 3 or 4 or even 5 points on my 1-10 scale.   Reading, writing, sharing, could anything ever be better?

I chose the phrase “I’ve learned that you should always leave loved ones with loving words.  It may be the last time you see them.” from the focus reading.  I feel I have done that with my parents.  I spent a lot of time doing that the last few years and now that they are both gone,  I take comfort in feeling I have no regrets where they are concerned.  Regret can be such an overwhelming waste of time and energy.  My need for tonight, my intention, is to start to reconnect to writing beyond spilling out raw emotion on to the page.

Affirmation: I am reconnecting to writing in a place beyond spilling out raw emotion onto to the page.

Readers Forum: everyone in the group tonight read a piece of their writing.  Unplanned, everyone’s writing, spoke in different ways about angles and/or the many faces of love.

As we end the evening, I am taking with me, a renewed, precious, and heartfelt love of angels and the many faces of love.  Love of chocolate, we actually had chocolate treats tonight.  Love of all the angels that watch over us and guide us to put pen to paper, guide us to paint personal and vivid word paintings of the many faces of love we have experienced.  Its joys, it sorrows, it’s peaks and valleys, it rawness and it’ warm fuzzy comfort.  Being a member of the Diamonds is like having my own personal group of writing angels.  As we write, share, listen to each other’s words, we are each to the others, guardian angels of this precious gift of writing.  My angel from the trigger table is playing a flute, notes of simple sweetness that enfold us, protect us, give us permission to speak and write our truth.  “Angels Watching Over Me” springs to my mind, the hymn we used for baptisms at St. Paul’s when I lived in Churchill.  We are all in this group of writing angels, baptized by love.  Love of writing, love of sharing, and love of supporting each other.

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My China Cabinet

© by Lori Gagnon, Feb 4, 2012 in Winnipeg, MB

my wedding flowers and cake top

favourite wedding photo and framed certificate

sit proudly atop where all can see

the bride doll from my wedding shower

10th anniversary champagne flutes and

painted rock from that second honeymoon

four flowered, burgundy banded, 22 kt gold trimmed plates

taken from the cabin at Falcon Lake

the middle shelf do proudly stand

with 2 china cups Mrs. Wells gave

Gramma Clayton’s silver topped china jam server

a pinwheel crystal pickle dish

a wedding gift from a previous marriage

Gramma Farebrother’s yellow rose tea set

bought by my Dad and handed down to me

the top shelf do adorn

Gramma Clayton’s old serving platter

and another from AAA consignment

four dollars, a steal of a deal

a yellow rose candy dish from eBay

Jeff’s Town of Churchill mantle clock

crystal claimed when clearing out Mom & Dad’s house

the bottom shelf holds dear

a service for two of Royal Doulton Sherbrooke

one crystal liquor decanter

and 4 matching crystal glasses

a wedding gift from my marriage to Jeff

a wedding gift of mother of pearl handled silverware

for Gramma that Grampa Clayton made himself

middle drawers in the bottom lovingly store

along side a service of shiny new silverware

placemats, napkins, and table pads

seasonal table cloths and scraves

and a ceramic ashtray Jeff’s Gramma made

Mom & Dad’s wedding china given

by Gramma & Grampa Clayton sit

in the cupboards either side of the drawers

a service for twelve with one only one cup missing

a life time of family gatherings and celebrations

witness to birthday, Christmas and Thanksgiving dinners

I listen for the remembered stories they hold

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In Loving Memory of my Dad

Photo album: https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150618233690469.444800.614910468&type=3&l=b138e274ac

 

On January 1My favorite picture of my Dad5, 2012, Robert (Bob) Albert Farebrother, aged 88 passed away at Grace Hospital.

Bob was predeceased by Ethel, his beloved wife of 65 years, and leaves to cherish his memory, his children, grandchildren, great grandchildren, nieces, nephews and countless friends.

Bob spent his working life at Kimberly Clark, first in his hometown of Niagara Falls where he met his wife Ethel and then in Winnipeg.  His free time was spent with family and friends, both at home and for many summers at Falcon Lake. He was a founding and faithful member of St. Bede’s Anglican Church, serving as a sides man, vestry member and spent many years making sure the Easter garden got put up and taken down. He was loved and respected for his loyalty, honesty, genuine warm nature and devotion to his wife Ethel.

The family extends grateful thanks to the many Homecare workers, staff members of Oakview Personal Care Home and Grace hospital for their thoughtful care of Bob during his last years.

He will be deeply missed by all who knew and loved him.

A memorial service will be held at the Church of St. Stephen and St. Bede on Feb 3, 2012 at 11:00 am, 99 Turner Avenue (at Mount Royal Road).  Family gratefully declines flowers.   In lieu of flowers, donations in Bob’s memory can be made to a charity of your choice or to the Church of St. Stephen and St. Bede.

 

Eulogy for my Dad, read at his memorial service by my long time friend Debbie Solvason.

Good morning.  For any of you who do not know me, my name is Debbie.  I am a long time close friend of Bob’s daughter Lori.  With the help of Bob’s family members and close friends, Lori has written some thoughts and treasured memories of Bob to share with you as we celebrate his life today.  It is my privilege to share those thoughts and memories with you.

Some of Lori’s favorite memories of her father revolve around the large repertoire of clichés Bob had for so many everyday occurrences.  Lori does not ever remember ice cream being taken out of the freezer with her father loudly proclaiming, “You scream, I scream, we all scream for ice cream”  Somehow, leaving lights on or the door open was equated with barn animals and would result in raised eyebrows and the question “Hey were you born in a barn?”  Putting on a new outfit always elicited the comment “You’re all dressed up with nowhere to go.”  In her youth, if Lori asked for a few dollars to go out with friends or to buy some wanted item, she often got a sum less than asked for with a smile and the one that goes “well beggars can’t be choosers, take it or leave it.”   If she asked for advice on a serious issue or situation she would get the comment, “Aren’t you between a rock and a hard place” or “it looks like you are up the creek without a paddle.”  There are very few days in her life, that Lori does not have a situation come up where one of her Dad’s clichés does not come instantly to mind and bring a smile to her face.  The other thing that Lori will never forget about her father was that he always there for her, no matter what the situation. One example she remembers from her youth. Her Dad had instilled in her as a teenager to never go out with having a dime for a phone call in her wallet for emergencies.  Some time after moving out on her own, Lori found herself in an uncomfortable situation she didn’t know how to get out of.  Taking out her secreted dime, she phoned her father.  He told her to hang tight, he would be there in a few minutes.  Not a complaint about it being two in the morning and having to drive all the way down town to pick her up.  He just came.  Lori could always count upon her Dad.  He was her hero.

Bob’s grandson Corwin fondly remembers playing cards with his Poppa around the dinner table both at the house in Winnipeg and at the cottage at Falcon Lake. Corwin spent every summer until he was fourteen at the Falcon Lake cottage with his grandparents.  His grandfather loved to play cards and carefully taught him how to play rummy and pairs.  He can’t help but smile when he recalls how Poppa pretended not to notice, that while they were talking or he was refilling their drinks, that Gramma was sneaking a peak at the cards in the pile.  Corwin moved to B.C. when he was fourteen and his visits with his grandparents have been farther and fewer between since that time.  But his grandfather holds a special place in his heart as the person who taught him about family love, values and compassion.  Now that his own daughter is approaching her teenage years, he hopes he can be half as understanding, compassionate and empathic as he remembers his beloved “Poppa” being.

One of the things that Bob’s son Barry remembers most about his Dad was his attachment to the cars he owned over the years.  How every car that he owned, was the best car ever made, until he bought the next one.   Thinking way back, he remembers a 1947 Hudson and the 1953 Meteor that his Dad had when they moved from Niagara Falls to Winnipeg in 1955.  And after that there was a two tone pink 1957 Monarch.  Up to that point Barry was young enough to agree with his father.  But then his Dad moved into what he calls “a bad period of Chrysler products.”  From that point on, he had fun bantering with and telling his father how wrong he was with his vehicle choices.  It was a game that they kept up, right to Bob’s last car, his 1992 Accord.  Bob was always trying to convince everyone that his Honda Accord was the best car on the road, even with 230,000 kilometers of wear on it.  When Barry was a teenager it was not uncommon for him to own several cars at once, often buying, fixing up and reselling them.  He remembers Dad took great interest in telling him how wrong he was to buy each one of them.  However, as soon as one of Dad’s co-workers had a vehicle to sell that he could buy, fix and make a small profit on, his Dad would help set it up.  These car wars, continued over the next 40 years, his Dad always trying to convince Barry how much better his current car was than any before, and how it was the best on the road. The only time Barry remembers his Dad conceded where cars were concerned, was only a couple of years ago when he took him for a ride in his wife Donna’s Corvette.   He beamed like a teenager, and commented that he had to wait until he was well into his 80′s to get a ride in a CORVETTE!  Barry just wishes they had done it sooner so that his Dad could have driven the Vet himself.  Barry still thinks his Dad could have done a lot better than the Chryslers, but a couple of the earlier cars his Dad owned he would love to have today.  He will fondly remember always, how fun it was to have the conversations and fun disagreements.  And he will also never forget, that even though he smashed two of his Dads cars up in the same month, and as mad as Bob tried to make out he was, he never refused to lend Barry one of his own cars to drive, even if his own sat in the driveway.

Bob’s granddaughter Rhonda will always cherish the time the time spent with him and Grandma at Falcon Lake, swimming, boating, playing cards, and teasing him about how he could not stand to see food go to waste.  She will never forget that her Grampa always finished whatever was on his plate and expected everyone else to do the same. He couldn’t stand for food to be wasted.  It always made Rhonda smile when he would say “How’s my favourite granddaughter?” and then he would laugh, fully aware of that what qualifed her as “his favourite” was that she was his “ONLY” granddaughter.  It is not lost on any of the family, that Rhonda’s father Barry, has carried that saying on with her daughter Kelsey, his only granddaughter.  Rhonda has never met anyone else who was so completely devoted to the people he loved, which was most evident in his care of her grandma in the last few years of her life.  She does not think there was anything he would not have done for any one of his family if they asked.   Rhonda NEVER remembers seeing him mad, even though she knows that she must have frustrated him many times over as a teenager.  She remembers one time in particular when he and grandma were taking care of her and her brother while her parents were away.  She was out riding her bike longer than she was expected to be.  When he found her he was visibly worried, and he sternly, but not angrily told Rhonda it was time to come home, then hugged her and told her she needed to let him know where she was going to be, because he had been so worried about her.  Rhonda says, he was the kind of person I strive to be and I will miss him terribly.

Bob’s grandson Currie has the same wonderful memories of his Grandfather as his sister Rhonda. He also remembers being very touched when his grandfather and grandmother made the effort to travel with his parents to Regina for his graduation from depot as he became an RCMP officer.  He knew traveling with Gramma at that point in her life was very difficult, but Grampa did it anyway.  His grandfather had also brought him a special gift, a ring of his own that he had engraved with his graduation date.  There after the Free Press announcement of Currie’s graduation complete with a picture of him in his red serge always hung on the side of the fridge at Bob’s house where he could proudly show it to anyone who visited.

Bob’s son in-law Jeff, remembers his love of food.  Bob’s wife Ethel was an amazing cook, but in her declining years could no longer do the cooking.  Bob was left to make most of their meals from prepackaged things like chicken fingers and meat pies.  Whenever Jeff was visiting and staying with his wife’s parents, he took over as cook.  Whatever meal he made, from Ethel’s round steak recipe to bacon and eggs, to barbecued beer butt chicken, was gleefully enjoyed.  “Jeff,” he would say, after eating whatever he had been served, “that is one of the best meals I have ever had.”  Jeff felt privileged to have been totally embraced by Bob as a member of his family, always being treated as if he was Bob’s own son, not just a new comer to have married into the Farebrother clan.

Bob’s neighbors and close friends for over thirty years, Glenn and Arlene have countless treasured memories of him.  Like Jeff, they remember fondly Bob’s love of a good meal.  During the time when Bob was struggling to do the cooking, at least once a week, they would cook a big meal, pack into a large basket and haul it across the street to share with their neighbors.  Bob was always appreciative and they would get the same “that was one of the best meals I have ever had” that Jeff received. Glenn spent countless enjoyable hours over the years playing cribbage with Bob.  Right up to his last bought with pneumonia, Glenn would play cribbage with Bob in his room at Oakview and could still only beat him about half the time, he was as sharp as ever.  When Bob was still in his house, but declining health made it difficult to maintain his yard, Glenn tried to keep it the way he knew Bob liked it.  When his wife Ethel had been healthy, she loved her flowers, especially the planters of red geraniums at the front steps.  Even after Ethel was gone, Bob insisted there could be no other flowers there but her beloved red geraniums.  Over the long years of their friendship Glenn and Arlene have shared many fun times with Bob and his wife that were filled with laughter, playing cards and crokinole, impromptu afternoon get togethers sitting on the front steps gabbing, and gathering together for quietly ringing in the new year. They liked to call Bob the “Candy Man”, as he always had on hand a few different kinds of sweets and never wanted anyone to leave his home without taking a treat or two.  Glenn says his friendship with Bob was as good as it gets and he considered Bob to be not only a wonderful friend but like a second father.  Arlene will never forget Bob’s parting words to her every time she was leaving, “I love you kid.”  The last time she saw Bob in the hospital, he managed to mouth those words to her, despite an oxygen mask and a lot of drugs, “I love you kid.”

Bob was what his daughter has coined “an extraordinary, ordinary person.”  He led what most would call an ordinary life. He had an ordinary job as a foreman in a factory, lived in an ordinary home in a small city suburb, he drove ordinary cars.   He spent his leisure time at a small, ordinary cottage at the lake, enjoying ordinary activities, swimming, canoeing and playing cards and board games with family and friends.  Bob was however, extraordinary to those who knew and loved him.  He was extraordinary in his unfailing devotion to his wife Ethel, never saying a harsh word about her, even during the difficult journey through the dementia of her declining years.  He was extraordinary in his love of all his family, kids, grandkids, great grandkids and all the people they brought into his sphere.  He was extraordinary in his loyalty as a friend, his helpfulness as a neighbor and his devotion to his church.  Bob leaves behind this legacy of extraordinariness in his own ordinary but loving and gentle way.

You lived a life full of love, laughter and play

We take comfort we will be reunited one day

We’ll remember you with smiles not tears

For the joy you gave us through all your years

Now you are resting from all your pain

You are with you beloved Ethel again

 

May God hold you both in the hollow of his hand

Your souls at peace in his sweet command

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