Comme ça passe vite... Vingt-cinq ans déjà...

 

Y'a personne comme dans les vues qui vient me voir, me consoler

A qui veux bien l'entendre, c'est dur à oublier

Tu m'manques, on a plein de choses à se dire

Après la pluie l'beau temps, mais l'orage peut durer longtemps

J'veux pas non plus cacher ma peine...


Paroles de diverses chansons de Dany Bédar

Vingt-cinq ans déjà quand Mom m'a téléphoné pour me dire que c'était fait

Vingt-cinq ans déjà que j'ai ramassé ton chapeau qui gisait là

Vingt-cinq ans déjà que je prie pour que tu repose en paix

Vingt-cinq ans déjà que j'oublie un peu plus le son de ta voix

Vingt-cinq ans déjà et c'est encore dur...

...tu me manque Vieux.

Be Yourself, But Be Your Best Self

Since my mother is turning 78 and because the last time we saw each other was before she left for Florida, last fall, we went to visit her on Saturday.  Since the rules are a lot looser we figured we could visit them while keeping some social distancing. We made her day, she was so happy and it was funny to see how much she wanted to hug, kiss and simply touch us. She was so excited.  I think if she'd been a little pooch, she would have peed on the spot!

It was strange to visit her, since we haven't visited anyone for a few months now... and we had not seen her nor her beau in almost nine months.  According to my mom, her beau had a rough winter.  He was sick most of the time he was there, feeling like he had no energy, didn't work around the property liked he used to the previous winters.  They got back just before the borders were closed, and since haven't been able to access his doctor as easily as normal (or pre-covid).  When I saw him I thought he aged a lot.  He's lost weight, he didn't look that healthy.  He wasn't feeling too hot neither.  He's having back issues, plus he's having some blood issues, and going for more tests, which worries him.

It was nice to see my mom, she looked the same.  She's doing well, even if she is bored out of her tree with the confinement.  She's a very social person, loves to be with people, playing cards, pool, bowling, board games, name it she plays. So being at home, doing puzzles, reading and watching TV is a real downer for her.  Plus her beau not feeling well... and me not calling much, nor visiting.

On Friday, while Hubby and I went to our jeweler to get a new battery in my watch, I decided to get my mom a little charm.  She's been wearing this heart pendant for years, it was a pendant my ex boyfriend gave me when we had first moved in together back in the late 80s.  When I left him, I gave that heart to my mother, since she was always mentioning how nice it was.  When I worked at the jeweler I had looked at a few things, with her in mind, but since we don't see each other that often, I simply looked. 

Friday we got her this ''floating'' two-tones gold heart.   I knew she already had a few chains she could put it on.  She did not wait for us to tell her to open her gift.  I had written in her card that the two halves were Hubby and I. She loved it and wanted to put it on a chain right away.   She removed the old one, and went to her bedroom to look for a nice chain.  I followed her and going through her jewels with her, reminding me of when I was a kid and would play in her jewelry box, which had a little ballerina and red velvet on the inside, and sections for rings, earrings, etc.  She doesn't have that box anymore... so we went through her travelling stuff, and lots of little envelopes.  While she was looking she was talking...  She surprised me by saying she had to get something off her chest for the past three years and mostly she had to forgive herself before anything.  I stood there listening and going through her costume jewelry.  You see three years ago, I had planned a nice outing mother/daughter for her 75th birthday.  She decided not to come (you can read more about it here).  Since then, I have been more distant.  I've distanced myself, gave her space and have not said anything to her about it.  I have been hurt, and have been avoiding being hurt again.  For the first time, in many, many years, my mother and I had a conversation where both of us listened and talked like adults.  I felt super calm. She apologized for ''not putting me first that time'', and she regretted it.  She said that a few times.  I listened.  When she said that she didn't want me to be like my father in never again offering something because she had said no once, I listened, took a deep breath and told her, she did it more than once.  Seeing the look of surprise on her face I knew I had to explain myself, so I did.  I remained calm, and told her that she deeply hurt me twice: once when she refused to come shopping with me for my wedding dress because I didn't want her then beau to wait for us in a car in January, and the second time was when she refused to come with me for a mother/daughter weekend for her 75th birthday because she felt torn up between her (new) beau and me.  We talked.  She cried, and I tried to reassure her that no matter what she was and will always be my mother and that in fact, it was because of that, that I was still talking to her.  I also explained to her that like a broken ceramic that may be glued back together and looks ok, that piece has been broken and will never be the same, no matter how much we try to make it all nice, it was broken.

She accepted my explanation, and I think that the fact that we wouldn't touch (hug, kiss) made it easier.  It was just our words, spoken softly.  I did tell her, like she did when she read her birthday card, that she had a lot more life behind her than ahead, and that I want those years, no matter how many there are, to be happy and peaceful, not filled with regrets and sadness.  I want her to be happy.  I would love for her to be happy with herself, to be enough for herself to be complete. 

Was I on Sesame Street?

Hi Y'all!  (I guess I've been watching "Big Brother" a little too much and picked up on the y'all, could be worst... I think?!)

Been feeling the need to write/vent or whatever it is I do on here, for a while, and after spending an evening and a full day with relatives (you know, those folks you see at either weddings or funerals?), the need was felt once again. I don't know if it is simply because I am getting old...er, but I'm realizing that there are things I do care less about.  At one point, last Saturday, I was sitting among cousins and this realization hit me, I felt out of place, or beyond what was being said around me.  It is not that I was not understanding or empathizing with what was being said, no, it was more like a complete detachment and also this desire to refrain from standing up and telling them to shut the fuck up, to let go of the past and to move the fuck on. (Excuse the language, I've also been watching "The Ranch"). 

My father's side of the family is/was... let's say... hmmm... somewhat crazy... not the most tender, demonstrative, loving people.  All of them were to some extend abusive, both physically and verbally.  I know first hand the power of words, and how they can affect us.  I also know the power of a good whooping.  No matter what anyone can say, I do think there are times when one is deserved, and when done in a reasonable fashion (read: not with a hammer, or a whip) a good wack on the bum will straighten you (You don't believe me, ask Ana in Fifty Shades! - joking!).  That being said, I don't think that when it comes to bedroom games, unlike Ana and Christian.  

We all have horror stories, things we remember that were done or said to us growing up.  While listening to the conversations around me it was obvious that some of us never got over the "abuse".  For whatever reason they got stuck on "my father hit me" and "my mother said".  True, I've been hurt too.  But at some point in time, I made the conscious decision to move on, for whatever reason and as hard as it has been, because it was/is not always easy, I did manage to move on.  At times I asked for professional help, tried different things, read many self-help books, whatever could help me to move on, because I did not want to be a victim of how I was brought up.  I knew, deep down, that whatever happened or was happening at the time, was not determining who I would be in the future or make me a victim, I was more than a kid whose father was rough with.  Granted there are some things that were/are harder to get over, feelings hurt so deep that I was/am not completely ready to let go yet.  Those are mine to work on.  And I do.  Or at least I try.

We all portray ourselves a certain way, to hide our insecurities or whatever, but to hear a cousin who is a good ten+ years older than me talk about how she was always being compared to her older sister growing up and how her mom disapprove of her , etc. was sad.  It was sad to see this woman who I always thought of as a carefree person who did what she wanted, to be so vulnerable and full of self doubts and even bitterness towards her mother was something else.  I know that aunt was tough, like the rest of the family.  I'm not trying to excuse their behaviors, far from it.  I'm only trying to grasp how someone can choose to hang on to such resentment for that long.  I chose to break free.  I'm also choosing to remain free.  I think it would be easy to fall back to being the victim, the "poor" kid who endured such horrible pains and/or words.

People often think of me as harsh, I am. I have lots of mordant... I guess that between the way I was raised, the area where I grew up and twenty+ years of martial arts, I've developed this thick skin. It could have some prickles here and there, protective measures?!   I'm sarcastic and I can also be pleasant, if I choose to.  I believe it is all a question of choice: to choose how we hang on or let go and move on, all the while enjoying the moment...  Life would be/is so much lighter this way.  Who needs all that baggage, really?  Because deep down, in the long run, nobody gets out alive, so might as well make the most of it daily and live for the present, 'cause it is a gift! ;-)

Twenty Years Already...

Twenty years ago the world as I knew it changed.  It was a somewhat expected change, but even then it was a surprise, not a welcome one that is for certain.

Twenty years later not a day goes by without me thinking of that day, of him.  I still miss him.  It saddens me when I realize that I've forgotten how his voice sounded or how he smelled...

Twenty years and I still think that he did what was right for him.  I have not change my mind about that.  He saw no other way to feel better, and I (still) respect his decision.  I believe it was his to make.

On this date, twenty years ago my only regret is not having told you how much I loved you.  I truly hope you knew that, Dad, and wherever you may have ended up my wish for you is that you have found the peace you were so seeking.

Things I do miss...

Ever had that feeling that you were born in the wrong time period?  That you're an old soul stuck in the wrong body for the times?  I've been thinking about that lately, oh this is not a new thing, quite the opposite.  I remember thinking, as a kid, that I should have been born before.  I was brought up a certain way and because of that, I often stood out.  I guess my values were different than those of the people my age.  Maybe it came from my parents (read strict father and his crazy ass ideas), I don't really know.  I do know that as I'm getting old...er I do miss some of that.

What do I miss exactly?  Many things, like for example:

Dressing up - I was raised to dress up when came time to go somewhere like church, or to attend a funeral.  If I went out with my parents to visit a relative or even to go to a restaurant, I had to dress up.  I didn't have to wear tulle, but I had to wear something nice, and preferably not pants (I did say my dad had crazy ass ideas!).  In doing so I had to behave a certain way, I had to sit properly and it "forced" me to be more lady like, not slouching as much if you will.  I remember feeling proud of my nice clothes.  To this day, whenever we dress up to go somewhere, I still feel this feeling of pride as soon as I wear something nice.  Many fashion advisers will say it, dress the part, and it is true.  When you dress nice your whole posture changes.  We've lost that with all those "jailin" pants that is for sure!

Modesty - Maybe it is because of the new clothes styles, the "gang" style many people wear, the casual went from a nice pair of khakis to rip jeans and showing more skin than I do in a bathing suit. The sad part is, many (read, a shit load too many!) should cover up.  Please do not say that everyone is entitle to show as much or as little as one please, that we should accept all sizes, etc.  Give me a break.  Some things should remain private and unexposed, and I'm no prude, but I do have a gag reflex!

Handwritten letters - I used to have penpals back in high school, I still do and I have my postcards.  I just love to write.  The feel of pen and paper is nice.  We can express ourselves in writing often way better than if spoken (in my case anyway!), and for me the coolest thing is finding an old letter written by an ex-boyfriend or a relative long past, and remembering them through their words as if they were still talking to me.  So many souvenir in old hand written documents.

Memorizing phone numbers - to this day I still remember our phone number from the store.  I used to know so many numbers by heart, now, I can barely remember mine!  That muscle hasn't been trained in many years, since the arrival of speed dial and the Smart phones.  I don't even know my own mother's phone number!  I have it programmed in my cell, so I don't need to remember it, right? Riiight!

Saying "Please" and "Thank you" - that used to be a given.  I find it sad to see a TV commercial (about Tim Horton I think) where they say you can only say "Ice Coffee" to get one, and oh, of course, you can say "Ice Coffee Please" or "Ice Coffee Thank You".  It is a very sad reflection of our manners or rather lack of manners.

Saying "Sir" and "Ma'am" - another nice thing that has been lost.  Granted I will admit, being called ma'am by a twenty something stings a little, but then again when it does happen I appreciate the respect.  I remember being afraid of my elders, relatives, neighbors and even complete strangers, because I knew that if I didn't talk to them respectfully I would get it (it being whatever from an earful to a good whack!).  We had to show respect to our teachers, to people working in public (from waitress to nurse to office personnel), to the parents of friends, we weren't on a first name basis and did respect them (or at least acted like we did!).  I hate it when I call somewhere or meet a contractor (which is something I've been doing the past few weeks) and to be talked to as if I'm someone they know.  We have an expression (in French) that says:  "We didn't watch the pigs together", as in we're not that familiar, let's keep it clean.  It's not even about being snow, I see it more as mutual respect and in some way showing some modesty, keeping things on a neutral basis if you will.

Doing mental math - I'm not math person, far from it.  I had to learn at a young age to count, since my folks had a store and I did operate the cash register (we had one just like that!  We used the crank when there was a power failure).  I had to know how to give the change back.  You know, before the electronic cash register?  There is nothing that infuriates me more than going to a store and giving $10.25 to the clerk for a $8.15 invoice.  When they look at me with that puzzled, confused look I want to scream (no not really, I would much rather smack some sense into them!).  When I tell them to simply give me back $2.10 they are completely lost.  I don't know how many times they will hand me back my quarter and the change for the $10, so a dollar and eighty-five cents of change, grrrr. Morons who can't count, unless their cash register tells me the amount. And if their cash doesn't work, then forget about paying, they are royally screwed.

Cursive writing - actually never mind cursive, simply writing full words and sentences! Ah! Seriously!  Sometimes some younger friends will text me (we have more than twenty years difference) and in order for me to understand what they are sending me I have to read it out loud.  I just can't get on with that, I like words and like to write them.  I don't do "gr8" or "CU", so no I'm don't type fast nor do I use my thumbs, what can I say I'm vintage!

Are there any things like these old habits that you miss?

Cleaning, Painting, Packing and Forgetting...

 Already at week 17, or day 109 of 2016.  Man time flies even if we're not having fun!  Since I last wrote  we went for a week to Vegas, a week of rest, good eating and soaking up some sun.  It was a good week away, that we both enjoyed before coming back to our "go, go, go" lives.

We finally went to the notary and signed for our new (and final, for a long while, I hope!) place.  We did the inspection in the morning and signed in the afternoon.  They delivered as promised.  They say it was ready to move in, but since their standards of cleanliness and different from ours, we spent the weekend cleaning, getting it ready for our stuff to be delivered tomorrow.  Actually, Hubby did all the cleaning and I was in the locker painting it.  It was the only thing that was not painted, and since it was "the time" to do it, otherwise it would never get done, I did it. 

Our new place

This is our new home.  It will be different for sure.  Last night, in between two trips of us moving our clothes, cousin, who leaves a street over, came by for a visit.  Our first guests.  It will be our first place where we are so close to family. Exciting.

Lately I've been feeling like I'm neglecting people in our lives.  Between the traveling, the temporary move and now this (final!) move, I feel like we never stop long enough to catch up. 

Yesterday, was the first time in seventeen years that I didn't think of my father.  I would lie if I'd say I think of him daily, I don't think it is a daily thing, but I do think of him often and also often talk about him.  I feel that with all the commotions in our lives I (finally) let go of him...  It is a strange feeling and yet, I do believe it is a good thing.  A new beginning of sort.

Now, I need to get packing so that the movers have boxes to bring from this noisy apartment to our new place.  Can't wait to be home!

Fifty years ago...

Today I've realized that I've missed my parents. The couple they were together.  The couple I knew as Mom and Dad. 

Today I've realized that it would have been their fiftieth wedding anniversary.

Amazing to think they would have been a couple for that long, with each other almost every day until my father's death.  To think not only were they married, they worked together, they raised  me together.  They were a couple.  Not a perfect one, far from it (in my views anyway), but they worked.  How ever crooked they might have been.

Yep, today I came to the realization that I miss seeing my parents, together.  I do miss my father.  I think of him often.  I seldom really do think of the two of them together anymore, and when I did at lunch, it made me a little sad. 

Knowing myself, I would have most likely throw them a big party to celebrate this milestone.   Today, I did nothing of the sort, only thought of them and thought of my mother who left for her moose hunting trip early this morning...

Times do change.  So do people... it seems.

Liberty in death

Already fifteen years since the day my father decided to go.   I still miss the old man.  As I'm aging (or simply because) I'm realising more and more that I am my father's daughter in more ways than one.  One would hope that one would forget some, let go of that pain in a way, and yet it's not really the case.

It still gets to me when people talk about how a lot more than why.  I guess I know why, and for sure I do know how.  I respect how.  I could never do what he did.  It's not only a question of courage or lack of, but more a question of decissiveness - of being so decided on doing something that no matter what one just has to do it.  Does that make any sense?  Recently a family member commented on how, and debated that his how was a cowardly one.  It is, in a way, but at the same time I think he mustered lots of courage.  I don't think there was anything easy about his out.  I can't fatom the idea of being so desperate that I could set up everything the way he did, plan every details and then go ahead with the whole thing knowing full well what he was about to do.

He had an ultimate goal:  to stop his suffering, his pain... his life... to find his liberty in death.

May you rest in peace dad - after all those years I can only hope that you've found sweet liberty - may its bell ring for you and bring you a well deserved rest.  I love you still, and always.

It never fails.

Just when I think things are good, something pops up. On Friday, my mother called. She rarely does. She called because a life long friend of the family had called her to let her know he had cancer. Again. He's been battling it for years, and I thought he was in remission, but he called my mom to let her know that his brain and lungs were now attacked. The end is near for him. When I had first found out a few years back he had cancer, I had written him a letter (I think I had posted about that back then). After I spoke with my mom, I felt sad.  He's a good man.  He wants to live and it saddens me to think of him going.  But such is life.  It sucks, but what that is why we're here, to live some and die.  Sad, ridiculous but true.  We don't have much choice about it. That's life.

Tonight, I found out the brother of a friend passed away.  He was only 42, father of two young ones.  It is sad.  I know he had a hard battle.  Not easy for anyone.

At times, I can't help but wonder if it is worth the effort we put in.  We're doing all of this, for what?  Nobody gets out alive, nobody's found a loophole, no matter your fortune, your relationship status, no matter how well or poorly you treat people, you will die too.  Nobody escapes it.  When I think of it, I then wonder why am I trying to be a better person, to be honest, to respect others, to be nice?  Does it really matter?  The way we live doesn't reflect on how we will die.  You can be an asshole all your life and go quietly in your sleep, while the nice person will suffer through cancer and all of that. 

Even if I do believe in karma, at times, it all doesn't make sense to me.  I guess I don't have that type of faith, the kind that will explain or rationalize it all, 'cause even if I try not to judge, because when I think someone isn't deserving of suffering I'm judging that person (in a good way, but still it is my judgement), and I shouldn't.  I should mind my own business, do my best and trust in the universe, or the energy or whatever.  At times, it is fucking hard to do.

I know life isn't easy, I get that.  We all have a path, that we choose or not to follow.  When I think of people (relative and friend) who stopped talking to me because I did or didn't do something, that they disliked but never had the gull to talked to me about it, it makes me... angry more than sad.  We have little time here, why are we wasting it this way, are we that arrogant?  Do we think that death will pass us by, that we have all the time in the world?  Can we really be that stupid?  Argh.

I swear, when I feel this way I so get why my father took the way out he did.  I'm assuming that was a way for him to claim some control over what he felt he could no longer control...  I still think it showed courage, and desperation, but courage to pull that trigger.  Courage I don't have.  At least not for that.  I have courage, but what I'm lacking at the moment, is hope, or is that faith?

Of all the things to forget...

We all know, as we get older, we tend to forget things.  I still have a pretty good memory and remember certain things with vivid details.  Sometimes it surprises people.  I don't try to retain information or memories, it just happens.

Often though, I will wonder if I really do remember something or it is because we've talked about it or because I've seen pictures that I do remember.  Then, there are times where I wish I could forget some things.  Doesn't seem to work like that...

Tomorrow will be fourteen years already that my father passed away.  When I close my eyes and think of him I still see his face the last time I saw him alive, when I held his face in my hands, told him I loved him and that he didn't have to do it.  The look in his eyes, the pain and sadness emanating from them was so great, he was a mess and it showed.  My next flash of his face was at the morgue, he looked so, but oh, so sad.  My poor father.  I often force myself to remember a picture of him taken a few years before his death, where he smiled and looked happy.  That is how I want to remember my dad.

Last week, while chatting with Hubby I realized that despite my best effort I was losing touch with my father's voice... I can't really remember what he sounded like.  I recall what and how he would say certain things, but the sound of his voice is fading away.  I'm not from a generation when people did video much, we didn't even do home movies.  My folks took pictures, lots of them.  I have the albums to prove it.  I have no recording of his voice.  I miss hearing him calling me "ma grande".  That is one thing that today's kids should cherish, having videos recorder/recordings readily available to them.  You have a (recent) cell phone you can create memories to last you a lifetime.  Makes me think of those messages we've heard after 9-11 that had been left by the victims before their deaths... as much as it is sad it is also a source of comfort for those you did get them.  I've often wished my dad would have called me before he walked to the shed.  He didn't.  I guess he needed all his strength to do what he was about to...  He didn't leave a note either - he didn't know how to.  He left quietly.

Despite the years, it still hurts.  The pain isn't as sharp as it was once, but it is still there...

 

Everything is melting and it smells like shit!

This time of year always sucks for me, in some way or another... It dates back to a long time ago, I've questioned myself as to understand if it was a learned mood/behavior from my father or if, like him, this time of year just suck... I think it's a little bit of both. 

The past few weeks I've been struggling with an idea to drop some clients, and maybe keep one or two and that's that.  I've been adding a few new ones lately and even if they seem like good ones a part of me is fed up of having to pick up other people's shit.  While talking with a friend last week, I came to realize that  I really was a pooper scooper for many of them.  They fuck things up and I fix them.  I do enjoy what I do, but having to pick up after others is getting to me.  I chose not to have kids because I didn't want that job, and yet I put myself in a position where I play mom (in ways) for clients.  Is it all because I can't say no? 

I've been wondering why I'm having a hard time dropping clients; other than the financial aspect of it all, a part of me likes to be needed.  I don't want to disappoint my clients.  Some say it's my professionalism, it is but it also more than that if I'm really honest about it.  I did manage to fire (indirectly) a client recently, and when she informed me of her decision I felt relief and at the same time that I was letting her down in some way.  I'm over that feeling now.  It is good. 

Spring always bring up new things right?  We often think of Spring as a beautiful season with blooms, the colors coming back to life, etc., but when I think of Spring I think of dirty snow melting and having a really dirty car, and of all the little turds showing up here and there because of disrespectful dog owners who don't pick up after their dogs...  It looks dirty plus it smells. Argh.

That being said, I do enjoy the thought of warmer weather, even if this year we are not that blessed with that yet.  One day is nice and sunny and the next it's back to winter, it sucks!

I'm in a mood for change, so I've made a few format change to this blog and I'm toying with the idea of changing my hair color, to go lighter... Let's change the things we easily can to start with and let's see where that leads us.

Cheerio for now!

Once more. Only once.

Yesterday was my father's birthday. I've stopped going to his grave, a few years back, on his birthday.  I haven't been there actually for a few years now.  I think the last time was when we buried my mother's partner.  I guess it pissed me off more than I thought that my mother chose to bury her last beau next to my dad...  Weird, I'm thinking of this now.  I wasn't too happy with the idea and had let her know, but she didn't see a problem or anything strange with it.  Picture this, on one side of the stone are written my maternal grand-parents names, as well as one of my uncle.  On the other side was my father's name, my mother (without the exit date, of course) and maybe now her last beau.  I'm writing maybe because I don't know if she had his name added to the stone.  And yet, I'm the weird one who sees (or creates) issues for no reason... yeah ok!

Yesterday my father would have been 71 years old.  I'm realizing he wasn't that old.  He did die young. 

Yesterday, I looked for a picture of my dad and found a nice one of him, the way I remembered him.

I've looked at it in details, as if I was trying to re-print his face in my memory.  Looking at that picture I couldn't help but feel I was forgetting my father.  Maybe it is because on Sunday we've watched a bunched of episodes from "Charmed" (wanted to watch that series again) and in one of the last one we've seen, the girls had gone back in time and visited their mother.  At times I wish I could do that.  I wouldn't change things necessarily, I would just want to see and hear my father's voice again.  I think I remember his voice, and yet... I'm not sure.

He's been gone for thirteen years already.  At times it feels like it was only a few months ago and other times it seems like it was ages ago. I wish I would have a note or something he'd written me, something I could see and touched, knowing it had touched him as well.  I don't have much of him.  He didn't write, he would signed his name in all the cards I've ever gotten from my parents, but I'd like to have more than his first name in a birthday card.  When I hear of someone who committed suicide and left a note, I sort of envy these people.  The time he did commit suicide he didn't call me, unlike his previous attempt.  He had tried calling me.  When he did take his life he didn't.  I guess he was pressed for time and didn't want to chance it with me trying to dissuade him... I still see him the last time I was at their place, as we were leaving I held his face between my hands told him he didn't have to do it and that I loved him.  I still see the sadness in his eyes.  I don't think I will ever forget that sadness, that look he had.  Even at the morgue, on the gurney, he looked so sad.  I felt sorry for him, for his sadness, sorry for his pain, sorry that I couldn't do anything more to help.  Strange that I'm thinking of this now...

If I had one magical power, I think it would be to go back and time and visit those who have left me...  I would have quite a few people to visit...  I would love to hear their voices again, hear them laugh and see them one more time... What about you, if you had one magical power, what would it be?

Intimidating he was, and this despite his size.

Here's what I think:  we all have been victim of it at some point in time and I also think we've been the intimidating one for someone else as well.

It's been all over the news and the social medias.  That is all we hear about since this teen girl committed suicide recently. I've been wondering if intimidation has become worst for the kids nowadays?  It's always been and (I believe) will always be.

When I grew up, in a very rough and though neighborhood,  it was a common thing to see fights.  People would settle their differences with their fists often.  I don't think "my time" was worst than today's.  It was different.  People stood up for what they believed in, and mostly for themselves.  My parents (read, mostly father) pushed me to defend myself.  I had troubles with some bullies in school, and my father would make sure I would stand up on my own.  If I'd come home crying after being beat up after school, I'd get yet another whack from my father for being weak.  He believed I had to learn. I did.

It may seem harsh (or even worst) for some, but I think that my father's technique made me stronger.  If I had problems, I had to find a solution rather than cry to my parents.  I would talk about it with them, and sometimes, without me knowing, my father would talk to my teachers or principal.  He interfered once, with me by his side, and it wasn't pretty.

Picture this, mid-seventies, I was eight or nine. At recess, in the girls' bathroom, there were always 2 or 3 girls hiding in stalls.  I would go in for a pee and they would climb on the toilet in the stall next to where I was and watched me.  Until the age of eighteen I didn't wear jeans, and very often wore skirts or dresses.  My father had a girl, and girls didn't wear pants that much (yeah, he was a special man).  I was often teased for being dressed different.  One of the girls, the leader of the pack, would often flicked my skirt, so I started wearing shorts under it.  She was a real meanie.  The things she would say and do to me.  I will say I was also a bit dumb.  She'd tell me to wait for her after school (to beat me up) and stupid me, I would!  I had reached a point, where I would avoid going to the washroom at school.  My mother started asking questions when I complained of belly aches.  I told her I was being watched when going to the bathroom and how I was teased.  She (naturally) told my father.

One morning as I was getting ready to leave for school, my dad told me to wait for him.  He walked me to school.  I remember being so nervous.  When we arrived in the school yard, he walked towards the head office and told me to follow him.  We made our way to the Principal's office.  Our principal was an older nun, who was very strict looking and didn't smile much.  When she welcomed us in her office, my father explained to her he had taken time off his work in order to address a situation and asked me to tell her what had been going on in the bathroom.  Sister Gertrude wasn't happy to have her morning start this way and it showed.  I told.  My father then asked Sister Gertrude if she ever had to pee in front of someone or in fear?  I still can see the look on her face.  He asked her what needed to be done so that this matter be resolved.  She reassured him and promised to take care of it all.  My father then said: "If I have to come back because of this, you will know how my daughter feels, trust me on that".  Let's just say I was hoping my father  wouldn't come back to school. Ever.

From that day on,  at recess, two teachers were in the bathrooms and the bullies were talked to.  I was called many things, but the worst of it was behind me and my skirt never got flicked again.  I did continue to wear shorts under it until later in high school...

Twelve years already...

...and yet it seems like yesterday.  No matter how they die, when a loved one passes away, that pain never really goes away.

At times I feel like I should be "over it", and still, when I think of my dad I feel somewhat sad.  I do miss him.  His image is still vivid in my brain, and I hope it remains like that, because I don't want to ever forget how he looked. 

As I'm typing this, I'm playing with the little feathers that used to be on his hat, that same hat he wore the day he took his life... Twirling them between my fingers reminds me of him, how he looked, how he dressed and how he would always wear his hat at least until late May.  He was always afraid to catch a head cold.

Strange how something as trivial as red feathers can bring back so many souvenirs.

Yeah, I miss my old man.  May he rest in peace, wherever he is.

It has sprung, so they say...

I think April is a nasty month.  I should be happy thinking about the blooming flowers, buds on the trees, snow melting and all, and yet... it seems like I couldn't care less.  This time of year is always somewhat rough for me.  My husband reminded me it's a recuring thing...

My father always had it rough at the end of winter, and  around Easter.  I'm wondering if I've learned this behavior from my father or if it's because of him?  It will be twelve years in thirteen days that my father past away, and even if I'm trying to stay upbeat, but a part of me just wants to crawl under the covers and sleep.

What is not helping this feeling is seeing my kitty cat and coming to term with the fact he will be leaving me soon as well.  It is hard for me to imagine coming home to an empty house, or not to have him visit me during the day, to not hear his loud purr in bed when he's squeezed between Hubby and me... He will be leaving such a big empty space.

Earlier I went downstairs to file something and he came down with me, just keeping me company, and chatting.  Since he's been missing steps, here and there, I took him in my arms, and once again was surprised by how light and frail he feels.  He's no longer my fat cat, but my little cat.

I have this weird feeling in the pit of my stomach...  It's not a good feeling.

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Daddy's Little Girl? Huh... No!

I've been thinking about my father lately, and about how I felt about him. It may sound strange but I had a somewhat irregular relationship with my dad. Many little girls have their father as their first love. I don't think I did. I'm trying to remember the first feelings my father instilled in me and I'm pretty sure it would have to be fear. You think it's sad? I don't. My father raised me the way he had been: it wasn't all lovey-dovey, far from it. Now that I'm thinking about it, I have to say I was almost brought up like our dogs. Seriously.

I remember playing with friends in the alley behind our restaurant. I would hear a whistle and would recognized my father's; that was his way to call me home. Clients of ours would be scandalised by that. My dad would even challenged men to give it a try and see if I would come. For some reason (I'd say fear!) I would pick out his whistling among others, strange huh?

He wasn't the most affectionate father. He was a provider. He was the master of his domain, and my mother and I were his to do what he wanted with. Yep, he was old school, there's no doubt about that. He did forbid my mother to work after they got married, and she listened (she was also from that generation of women who did listen to their husbands), she stayed home and raised me.

He wasn't even really affectionate verbally. No cute name calling. He wouldn't offer much praises either. When I would complain to him about his lack of encouragements his standard answer was "If I don't tell you anything it's because it's right!" I've learned from that. A lot. It wasn't easy at all. I knew if I did something wrong I would know, and I did.

My father was abusive. Some of the things he'd say and do to me, made me the way I am today. I know that. I came to accept it. Despite it all, I've always loved my dad, that is, when I wasn't hating him! Maybe it's like those kidnaps victims who fall in love with their abductors? I don't think so. Despite all his lacks, my father did love me, and that I knew. He had a lousy way of showing it and I came to accept that. I did wish for him to be "warmer" or more demonstrative, but then again that wasn't my father. He was mad and his anger was his way of expressing his feelings. I'm not excusing his behavior, I'm just acknowledging it.

He was a very generous man, and that's one thing I did take from him. He was very realistic so much so he would be pessimistic about life in general. He would always expect the worst of people. He took a lot of chances. If he wanted something he'd make sure to get it. He was a proud man.

Throughout the years, and especially since his death, I've had to work (hard) at changing my way of thinking and feeling. I had some serious learnt behaviors that I wanted to change. I did manage to change some. I understand him a little more now than I did a few years back. My father wasn't my best friend, nor even a friend. He was my father. He was someone I respected (at one point out of fear alone) and someone I loved dearly (that much I realised after his death, sadly enough).

I kind of believe we are here to learn, to better ourselves. In having that father I did learn a lot. He taught me lessons like nobody else could. It is true what they say about something learned with our body one remembers, trust me on that one! My father taught me to persevere, to be respectful, to be proud, to be honest, to love, to be myself and to live life. My father was just a man trying, with the tools he had. I had a good father, I know that much.

There are days like that, and today is!

Today I need to vent. I need to say something, because frankly I’m fed up of this “let’s blame others” attitude so many of us have. What ever happened to being responsible and owning up to it (whatever it may be)?

I’ve always believed that if I did something the consequences would be mine as well. My parents made it very clear for me; I had responsibilities and I would have to assume them. The same rule applied to choices I made. I chose something, which meant I wasn’t going to get the other thing as well; a choice had been made, thus a consequence.

I see a lot of people who are everything but responsible. It’s so much easier to blame others than to assume responsibility. Things do go their way, well, it couldn’t be due to their lack of efforts, no? It has to be because of someone or some situation that just don’t get them. How many people are walking around blaming their parents for how screwed up they are now? Granted many therapists will bring up the “parenting” issues in therapy, and many parents were/are bad parents, but to blame them for how fucked up we are now, really? I had good parents, even if my father was abusive (verbally & physically). I could have made a choice to hold to my resentments, my memories or my pain and be like so many: a real mess emotionally. I acknowledged what had been done to me, and decided to move on. I let it go. I’m not saying there aren’t residues of the way I was brought up (there are!), but I chose to let it go. I made a choice: blame others or be responsible. It would simpler at times to say: “well, I’m doing this now because my father whacked me hard when I was seven” and cry about it. I’m not saying it’s easy, it isn’t. It just feels so much better. It is worth the effort.

I told my mother last week, during her visit, I’m the first one to admit my father was a real bastard at times, but he also had great qualities and I loved him despite everything said and done. He was, in his way, a good father to me. He just had funny ways of showing his love at times, that’s all. Why would I hold on the bad stuff and feel sorry about it? I see the good and the bad, I see the whole man. I’m not excusing what or how he did. I accept it. There’s a big difference there. It’s a choice I’ve made, and I wish you all to make that choice: let go. There is much freedom in doing so. It’s good to be responsible and assume consequences. Taking a look at oneself and acknowledging what, how and who we are is also very liberating. It’s not easy, but again, so worth the effort.

It is easier, but it still hurts.

Eleven years ago, on this exact same day, we were driving to my parents’ place. I was crying and asking Hubby if this was the fastest he could go. I remember him saying something along the lines of “us getting there faster wouldn’t change the fact”. My father had taken his life.

As I sit here today, I can’t help but wonder if my old man would still be around if he hadn’t decided to leave us on that day. Would he be healthy? Would he travel with us like my mother is now doing? How would it be between us? Would we now be able to say to each other, seriously, how much we loved one another or would we still play those silly games we had of never quite saying it straight out?

I miss him. A lot. The pain of losing my father isn’t burning like it used to, and yet, it’s still there. This little pinch I feel every so often, out of nowhere, reminding me he is no longer, physically, here. I know he’s moved on. At least, I hope so. His memory is still very present, in my heart. He was my father; I was his girl. We loved each other, and this despite our strange ways. I don’t have regrets. He knew I loved him and accepted his decision. I wish I could hear him say my name one more time... to feel his soft lips on my cheeks… today I miss my dad.

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Image: Lake

Oh nothing much... just this and that.

Mmm, this is strange. As I sit here trying to think of something to write, I decided to look back at old posts to see if it was only an impression I had or if Blogsville was turning into a little ghost town. As I’m reading some posts from last year, I came across one (exactly a year ago) where I wrote about being melancholic… Only a few minutes ago, sitting in the living room with Hubby I said to him, I missed my dad today… isn’t that strange? Mmmm…. Things that make you go mmmm…

Wow, it’s already been a year since I’ve changed my template. Today I changed my profile picture. Again. Didn’t like the stars that much.

Tax Season will be here soon, and I’ve been preparing lots of T4s and Relevés 1 for my clients and ours as well. Looks like we “enjoyed” ourselves a little too much in 2009, we’re going to have to give the governments their shares in April. Darn.

Can you believe it’s been over two years since I started the Bloggers’ Birthday List, and to this day it’s far from being completed? I thought I’d have more names than I do. Are you on there? If not, let me know and I’ll add you to the list with pleasure.

Surfing around I’m wondering if it could be the post-Christmas down that’s keeping us from blogging more? This time of year is rough on many of us, for many reasons. I’ve been using my “happy light”. I need it. What about you, what keeps you writing?

Being Bilingual in Canada

I’ll try to answer a question Cinnamon Girl asked me (following this post):

What do Canadians think about living in a bilingual country, and is there any difference between the French-speaking and the English speaking views?

I can only speak for myself. Being a French-Canadian, born and raised in a French speaking home, with parents who did not speak a word of English, I can say it meant something. What? I’m not quite sure. Thinking about this made me realise it is a big source of conflict (personally) since some part of me feel strong about certain issues and they are conflicting with other beliefs… no wonder so many people fight over this.

I think it’s great that Canada is bilingual. On ten provinces and three territories only one is actually French, and it’s Québec. There are French-speaking concentrations in other provinces like in New Brunswick or Manitoba but Québec is the largest. Does that justify having French as a second official language, I don’t know. In being a bilingual country it sure brings expectation, like when a Québécois goes somewhere he/she expect to be spoke to in French (within Canada), and it makes sense. I especially agree with this in regards to government offices, services, etc. To hear our Prime Minister’s broken French or English (depending which clown is up there) saddens, actually it embarrasses me. How can he/she represent the people right? In all honesty I think he/she should speak well, and in the best of world he/she would be bilingual. Do both languages honor.

Because my parents came from the North of the province, there wasn’t any (or very rarely) English being spoken there. They didn’t need to learn or speak it in their daily lives. I was born there but really grew up in Montreal, which is a big cultural city. You see and hear everything here. While walking downtown, you can hear Arabic, Spanish, French, Chinese, English, Hindu, name it, it’s here. For a lot of Québécois, it means a lot to be able to speak French and to get services in French. I do care but not to the point of wanting to separate from Canada to make sure we preserve our language. When I hear some people talk (like I’ve mentioned on this post) I can’t believe that some of us are actually fighting to preserve “that”. I have some friends who are separatists and the way they speak (French) is really bad.

At home we speak English, mostly, no real reason, we just do. Hubby is among the lucky ones who speak more than one languages, he speaks three: Hungarian, English and French. When he speaks in English you can’t tell he speaks French and vice versa. It’s beautiful. I’m not so gifted. I tend to switch from one to the other without even thinking about it. Recently while shopping with my mother we walked in a show store where I ask a sales person, in French, if he had a specific shoe. He went in the back store. During that time Hubby came in, talked to me in English and continued on. When the clerk came back, I asked him something else but this time in English. He got all offended and started lecturing me. I told him to relax and to simply answer my question; in either French or English I didn’t care. Attitude like that pisses me off. As far as I’m concern, especially is sales, one should adapt. But then again, I understand the French speaking wanting to speak French (there’s one of my dilemmas). I’ve caught myself saying “You’re in Québec you should speak French” and I believe that. If you made a choice to come here (I’m talking about emigrants) knowing French was the main language then you should try and learn it. I’ve told this to my father in-law the few times he complained about some Québécois clients of his. I truly believe one should adapt to where he/she lives.

If you speak with some Québécois, French, in Québec, should be the only language spoken, and on display. There are so many rules and laws about signage here. We even have some “language nazis” (as Hubby calls them), who give fines to stores for not having their signs in French. Some areas are totally beyond this, and show no respect for that at all. I don't agree with excess, if there's French and English, I'm ok. If there's French and English full of mistakes, it bothers me (which ever language it is). I wrote a post about that back in 2006. Read it here.

When it comes to signage (menus, publicity, etc) there should be no mistake. But if I’m walking around Chinatown I expect to see some Chinese, but that’s me, and I’m weird. When I went to Vancouver I wasn’t shocked to see there were signs in English and some Asian (can’t remember if it was Chinese or Japanese). I didn’t freak out, even if French, our second official language, wasn’t being displayed. Maybe it should have been because it is “official” but then again, they adapted to their “clientele”. That makes sense to me.

My dad always told me, and this despite him not speaking it, that I could go anywhere with English and a will to communicate. He was sure right about that.

Cinn., I’m not sure if this answered your question... I'm doubting it. :-/