The Daring Way...

I run to the top of the hill and cry, “C’mon! This will be fun!” And my friends trundle up behind me, trusting that the adventure I’ve called them to join, will be as astounding a trip as I’d previously conjured.

“Show up, be seen, live brave” sounds so enlightening echoed from the lips of  the snake oil charmer, who’s overnight  horse and pony show  glistens like that of the sunlit merry-go-round of  my very first carnival.

 I want that! ‘Wholeheartedness is the way to go” When the show departs the lingering thought of what I could be ‘if only I dared.’

I stand on the precipice, my toes curled on its edge, wondering if I’ll  take the next step?

What am I  afraid of?  I’ve been this high before, don’t be silly, how hard could it possibly be?

I look around me, and wonder if any of the others are scared.

As if caught in some form of quick sand and cement , my emotions are glued — constricted by the weight of shame, confounded by it’s hiss of, “You sure you wanna play this game?” 

-j-

Missing...

This Thanksgiving we'll be together with extended family sharing food, wine, hilarity and familial weirdness that can only ever be experienced in a group such as this.
It's a beautiful day... the leaves have managed to stay attached, despite the cooler temperatures that are inevitable for the season. The ones that have fallen, lay much like a  mixed hued magical carpet that heaves a breath with each whisper of breeze.

Meanwhile, Nathan throws the young kids about like limp ragdolls, cast into the air and caught, giggles expulsing from each. Nathan's face is beet red as he strips down to his Superman muscle shirt -- He IS our family's Superman!

Inside the house, the glow of the oven pumps it's warmth into the chatter of various conversations. Splurts of chuckles split the hum like heavy splotches of rain tapping a dry sidewalk.

Uncle Jerry prudently navigates the roasted turkey. As the time draws nearer for it's presentation, he perches himself in front of the stove, mixing gravy, adding a touch of this or a smatter of that, as he scolds whosoever crosses the threshold of the kitchen to 'Get out unless you're cooking!" He has a point, as the scavengers start to circle for tidbits of carved meat to be snatched from the platter. Regardless of where she may be or what she may be doing, "Lynn!" is shouted for, in his hunt for an oval dish, or some tupperware that must be uncovered from the cupboard. After years of doing so, she swirls around him like a sleek partner in the midst of a marengue dance... never missing her beat always one off from him.
The long row of tables lovingly draped with orange tablecloths, each setting adorned with a matching green plastic knife, fork and spoon, succinctly placed by a red styrofoam plate. 

Past the Pickelhaubel topped shakers of pepper and salt, the saucy bottles of tabasco and plates of cheddar and dills is the panorama of devilled eggs -- each dish distinguished by its stuffing intensity.
For most a couple of paprika sprinkled egg yolks accompany our servings. Yet those more gastronomically adventurous there are jalapeno laced varieties as well as the ' blow- your- palate--apart' ones. Each year an unsuspecting guest will take the foolhearty challenge.

Cathy and Dave, our "duet du potato", once again share their gourmet tubers, three type this year (mashed, scalloped, and scalloped again... but nobody says anything about the repeat)... who can say no to a potato? Corn niblets,stuffing, gravy, cabbage rolls, home made buns and caesar salad surround the succulent turkey.
After grace is said, parameters are set, (like calling Robert's rules to order in a parliamentary debate), declaring who amongst the clan is first served. Oldest and those with young children are favored of course while the rest of us pace the imaginary boundary which somehow keeps salivating mouths at bay.

Throughout the meal, pictures sprawl across the bigscreen TV... memories of those whom we love who are not with us today. Elders who have recently passed... sons and daughters who are in another land... the cliche of gone but not forgotten throbs in the hearts of those who reminisce their abscence.

Cream puffs and pumpkin pie with whipped cream tops off the groaning table, where only those with hollow legs attempt to eat that one last bite.
  
In the backyard, a large pile of pallets, dead tree branches and a gas can lights their Thanksgiving Day pyre as the sun curls into the blanket of night. 
Roaring as it consumes the dry wood, crackling and spitting sparks into the air,
a druid dragon snorting his breath into the night sky. Johnny can see him and is caught in
Wally's arms before he has the chance to grasp the serpent's fiery tail.

Kids run haplessly in the dark with neon loops around their heads, feet and waists... blowing their Dollarama bird whistles announcing their presence in the darkness of night.

Opa, weary from a long day, is driven home, just in time to get his supportive socks removed by the homecare lady.  

Families pack up their tired kids, who will lull to sleep on their journey home.

Its good to have family... you're welcomed, you're loved, and you're accepted for just who you are.

--j--

Solace of days...

A chink in the armour
That steeled her soul
Our steps are tenacious
We so want her whole.

We've witnessed
Her whirlwind spirits rise high
Then plummet to earth with her wishes to die.

The blues turn to black in those very dark nights...
Her daylight's diminished by sadness and fright.

Who is this tormentor
Strangling each breath
The cruel lowly bugger
Who's solace is death?

To have every hope, every wish that we pray?
Our longings burned out to a deep ashened gray.

So we contort through this dolorous maze
Enslaved as it were, through maleficent sways
Yet light seeps through cracks in this cavernous strife,
And once more we cling to some hope in this life.

...j...

not even a dentist sees as many toothless smiles as a school photographer sees on picture day.

-m

dear tuckered out boy,

why will you not sleep?

close those tired red eyes.

and please do not to peek.

all night i could watch you

make no sound at all.

i could watch your deep breaths

make your chest rise and fall.

but before you doze off,

i will tickle your ear.

yes, you'll wake up grumpy,

but you'll know that i'm here.

and that's all i want,

is for you to now know,

that i'll always be watching,

love, a mosquito

-m

the secret to surviving a traffic jam is good company.

-m

A boy's story...

Everyone should have someone that recalls their day... today I'm that someone.

Twenty-eight years ago, a boy came into this world a tad early. He was supposed to be born October 3rd, in which case would've been the same date as his maternal great grandfather, William Angus. Though we had no intention of naming him either Will or Angus.
William would have turned to Will or Willy, Bill or Billy... none seemed to roll off our tongues very easily without some lick of distaste.
Angus definitely could be a contender, if one's last name was Ferguson, or McKenzie, yet with a surname of Severloh, it didn't quite fit. Angus, being far too Anglo Saxon for such a strong Germanic appellation.

 Back in the day, when gender identity was still cloaked in secrecy, we had no idea whether we would have a boy or a girl. We simply knew that this child would be Michael if a boy and Sarah if a girl. Funny how things turned out, as almost three years later we did have our Sarah. We then had what the  older folks referred to as The Millionaire Family... I'm still waiting for that fortune to arrive!

I remember the night I went into labour. We lived in a small house in the North End that was rented from my Dad. We'd refurbished the attic to become our bedroom, which was accessed by a steep set of creaky stairs, which contributed, I'm sure to jostling my first born out of  complacency and into my arms.
That night I was heavy with child. I couldn't sleep, every position I lay was daunting. This child consumed my entire torso, every move I made was countered by a jab in my ribs or a punt to the kidneys.
 Ascending that slender staircase one last time, (by all accounts it was the third), I clambered onto the bed and attempted to lie in a comfortable position. Jealous of the body slumbering so peacefully next to mine. The rythmic rise and fall of each breath triumphant over the wriggling and tossing of my entire being. Once more, my bladder pinched, I struggled to an upright position, my water broke. Prepared, from all the parenting know how books we'd read,  we knew this might happen, so had lined our mattress with a rubber sheet. I lay back down thinking of the journey about to begin, tapped the inert arm next to mine and whispered, "I think it's time."

Happy Birthday, Mike. xo

-j-