Conversations with a cousin

Last night, as I was skulling around Facebook, I came across a gem: a conversation with a cousin, a far away cousin removed from me not only by the distance but also time. We're also removed from each other because of family secrets, events that happened so long ago that even we can't separate fact from fiction since the stories are not talked about, hushed up, too painful to bring to the surface.

Am I being cryptic enough for you? I don't want to dredge up bad memories and pain for my family, but I will say that we have a colourful history, of first loves, of loss, of choices coloured by judgment. I am my mother's daughter and she her mother's daughter. Her sister is her mother's daughter too, but not from the same paternal line as my mother.

A number of years ago, my uncle and I decided to write down, draw out our family tree, more to understand it than to remember it. We all have our memories. My second cousin, last night, admitted that he knows less about his family tree, his beginnings than he'd like. "I know more about my mother's side of my family than my dad's," he said. It's sad, especially since he comes from a long line of pretty awesome people - myself included. My aunt is his gran. His dad is my first cousin and there is about 30 years separating me from my first cousin. He also admitted that while he knew we were cousins, he didn't know where or how we fit, where we intersected on the family tree.

The older I get the more I find it important to know where you come from, to know your lineage and the stories of the people who came before and shaped your path. Genealogy is even bigger now than it was when I first put pen to paper with my uncle to trace our roots when I was 10. I was interested then and I'm even more interested now. And, I was sad and more than a little disappointed to think the younger generation would not be privvy to these stories, these histories - it's the indifference that saddens me the most.

Family histories, stories will be lost, if not written down, if not spoken. He knows nothing of our families' past and the people who make up our fabric. Isobella (Gran or GT), Christina, Nora, Ann, May, Tom and George - these names will not mean anything. To Cousin Ross, living in Tasmania and working as a dentist, they will be a whisper on the wind, a thread in a tapestry so rich that to lose it would be a disservice. 

I know of what I speak. As a daughter of an only son, my connection to my dad's side of the family is just as precarious as Ross', simply because the effort was not there to remember. Sure, I remember my grandmother, my grandfather's brother, his wife and daughter, but that's where it ends. It ends because people did not think it important enough to maintain contact or even to document it. It's a lineage unexplored and it's sad.

Cousin Ross asked for a copy of the original family tree started all those years before. We have more to add, so I will do that before passing it along to him, and hopefully it will enlighten him and encourage him to explore all sides of his family, no matter how many skeletons he may or may not uncover. I know I will be sitting down with both of my parents to ask questions about my lineage, their childhood and the family members who came before them. If we knew where we came from, perhaps it will shed some light as to where we are headed, and how we became the people we did.

To be honoured

Friendships made quickly on such a happy occasion!

I think I'm a good person who makes friends easily, but it's always uber-wicked when this is recognized. I don't need confirmation, really, but it does put a song in my heart and a dance in my step when another person steps up and puts his or her arm around you to say "You know, you're alright, kid." It's all about the connections you make, day in day out.

It happened today. A friend I met while on a holiday/tropical wedding contacted me on the Facebook chat to share some news: he's getting married. I had met him once at my friend's wedding two years ago in the Dominican Republic. He's a friend of the groom, a childhood friend who, despite the miles that separate them now, has asked my friend to be his best man. The connections are still there, the tie is unbreakable. And, in while sharing the news of his newborn daughter and his upcoming nuptuals, he extended the ultimate invitation. Despite meeting only once on such a happy occasion, he uttered the words (actually he typed them but I just imagine him speaking them): You know, if you can come to the wedding, you're invited. We'd love for you to come and join us.

In my years, I've found this commonplace among Dominicans, the instant acceptance, the throwing open of the arms to welcome you to the fold, no matter how your affiliation or no matter how long you've known them, or even your exposure to them. They are so very welcoming and loving, immediately opening up to you as family.

I was touched and immediately considered the invitation. Of course, I'd have to save for it, especially considering my skint stint in which I find myself. But, I'm honoured to be invited, considered, recognized as friend, as family.

It left me in a good mood for the rest of the day. I was light, I was jovial, I was exhuberant. And thrilled. It didn't hurt that I stepped on the scale at WeightWatchers to discover I had lost 3 lbs, bringing my total to-date to 10. Ten pounds down. I feel lighter already, not just in my body, but also in my soul. I'm on my journey, bloggers and it will be a hell of a ride.

Oh, it's the most wonderful time of the year...

It's started already. Last night, as I was sitting down to watch Horatio Cane kick butt CSI-Miami-style, I saw it. A commercial for Staples with parents dancing down the aisles with half-comatose kids in tow, on a couch no less. School is a month away and we're already celebrating. Okay, not me, but gazillion parents are doing the mambo or the rhumba - anything but the funeral march that the kids will be doing.

I still try to stretch August out. I guess I hadn't got it out of my system when I was in school and it still represents summer, running through sprinklers, riding bikes until well past streetlight time, camping and going to visit Grandma up north (yes, where the Chapman's Ice Cream lives). It does not represent back-to-school shopping, binders, erasers and whatever other school supplies are needed. And, it does not represent a change in season. That's what fall is for, and I'm sorry but August, you ain't fall. No matter what those Staples people are trying to sell.

It also means that in two days (that's right TWO), I will be on my way across the ocean to visit my second home. The rolling, white-dotted hills (the dots are sheep btw), narrow roads flanked by stone walls and crazy-ass roundabouts. Tea by the gallon, bran scones, a pogue of chips with brown vinegar, walking uphill both ways and family. August to me is family, a reconnection and a recollection of our history, of what makes us who we are.

My main intent for this visit is a) accompany my cousin and her new bundle of joy on their first transatlantic flight together, offering a shoulder, an extra pair of hands and even a diaper changer if needed. The other reason is to visit with my aunt, who will be 89 this year and is angry that she can't do everything she used to do.

My family says that I am to expect a big change in her from my last visit two years ago. Her eyesight has deteriorated, along with her hearing and her balance, which wasn't good to begin with, is almost non-existent. This remarkable lady had persevered through a lot - through a war, being separated from the love of her life, an officer in the army, raising three sons and witnessing the birth of eight grandchildren and two great-grandchildren. Her childhood could be described as challenging. I won't go into detail, but let's just say it was a hard go - harder than anything I had to experience. She had worked tirelessly to give what she did not have and she continues to touch many, many lives with her kindness.

And she's angry - angry that her body, at 89, is failing her. Always one to do for others, she revolts when a fuss is made over her. If you're going to vacuum with her, then she'll help out by dusting. You plan to take her out to dinner? She'll make dinner before you arrive and insist on staying in for a full meal catered by her, cuppa tea and all. She worries like the best of them (have you met my mother yet? Her sister? The resemblance is uncanny). And god, do I love her.
It's said you can never choose your family and it's true. I was born to my mother, who was born to hers. We take a little bit of the previous generation in our DNA. It could be our upturned nose, our shade or texture of hair, the lilt in our voice, and it can also be how we hold ourselves, our proud walk - proud to be a part of the long line of strong women who came before.

Confession: I'm not proud to be a little nervous. Part of it is because I'm a procrastinator and, as usual, I've left a lot to the last minute. It wouldn't be my trip without it! I'm also nervous because I'm doing something I've never done before - traveled by train into areas unknown. Will I get the right train? Miss my stop? Not get along with the people I'm supposed to be visiting with? It's a fear of the unknown and once I've had the experience of a new adventure the fear will be gone.

I may blog once more before I depart, but if I don't, I'll have lots to report when I get back. Stay tuned. August is not over yet.

You don’t choose your family and it’s too messy to kill them…

Unless you carpet your entire house with the same plastic that went on the couches in our for-show living room. Then you can bludgeon to your heart’s desire.

Really, I’m not that perverse. I was up late watching back-to-back episodes of CSI, but I can see how it would be easy to go from the Norman Rockwell family unit to The Manson Family. Especially with my family.

I do love them, honestly, but it’s overkill when your mother calls three times in one day to find out how you’re managing with your brother’s 67-lb. ball of afro. After the first call there is nothing left to talk about, but she wanted commiseration that my already-physically and emotionally spent brother has to add another item to the ever-growing list of responsibilities. In honesty, yes, he should have thought of the time constraints and the training involved in getting a dog, especially from puppyhood. But he’s trying his best and that’s all anyone can ask.

Like I said, you can’t choose your family. If I could, I would have traded my brother in for the next model when, at the age of 12, he hid underneath my bed and grabbed my ankles as I passed by. Already a child who envisioned monsters lurking around every corner, this was enough to set me over the edge. I actually peed on my brother’s hands, which some would say is punishment enough. I don’t think so.

My dad doesn’t get off scot-free either. He’s the one who told me about said monsters. He also told me that I sounded like a dying cat whenever I sang songs he didn’t like. Sing along to the radio station in the car? Not this girl. Try it and you would be subjected to Joe’s caterwauling – yes, he would actually growl, spit and cry like the neighbourhood cat just to prove his point. Sing a big band song, a song from his repertoire and there was nothing as sweet as your voice. Styx? Stinks, he’d say. INXS? Crap. Depeche Mode? Nothing I can repeat. His ears would bleed if he heard some of the music on my mp3 today: Green Day, Billy Talent, U2.

It could be worse. I could be kin to these folks (yes, that is a possum).

Or, I could have a little clarinet player floating in the head of another larger, more life-like clarinet player.

Or my dad could fall asleep in his recliner like this old dude. Nah, that’s my mom’s job.

Happy Tuesday, bloggers. We’re one more day closer to the weekend, Canada’s long August long weekend. Long live summer, or long live the summer whenever it does get started.

Oh my god, what did I do!?!?!?

I had been debating for weeks on whether I should book them... the tickets across the pond to visit family and friends. Yes people, I'm going back to Scotland. Again. Perhaps that's the reason for my insomnia. I'm a bit nervous. It's a lot of money, people. It means two months of freelancing and a bit of scrimping and saving where I can. But, it's worth it in the end. I think.

The main reason is to visit family. My aunt is 89 this year. Yes, 89. Eighty-nine. Almost 90. Given that my grandmother, Bella, after whom I've named my cat, lived to 99, it's not far-fetched that dear Auntie Tibby will enjoy the same ripe age. Or, maybe not. And that is why I hit the purchase button tonight because you just never know what life will have in store - for me, for her, for Scotland.

It's also a chance to visit my sister-friend of 27 years. We often go months at a time with no communication but when we get together it's like the time has never passed. Jokes are shared, bottles of wine are opened and we catch up with two years' worth of news. Her daughter is now four, no longer doing the bum shuffle along the floor. She now grabs the phone from her mum to speak to Auntie Scribe from Canada. The conversation is mostly one-sided, but it doesn't matter.

My love affair with Scotland started when I was 18 months old during our first family vacation. My mum's aunts living in Canada kept up the love affair by playing Pipes on Parade (my favourite) and offering to pack me away in their suitcases whenever they went home for a visit. It never happened and I was mad every time they left for the airport without me tucked away. They came home with gifts from the "motherland" but it just wasn't the same. Scotland, I felt, was in my blood. It was my birthright to go and experience it for myself. Even if I was only five.

Fast forward to my 11th year, March Break, when my mum decided it was time. It was a 10-day visit but it was magical. We spent a week in Wales visiting my gran and grandad before traveling by train to Edinburgh to visit my aunts and uncles, cousins and my best friend who I didn't know was to be my best friend before we were introduced over my aunt's back garden fence. I can't count the number of times I've been back, with my parents and by myself, often doing side trips to the Highlands (where, funny enough, I was chased by a Highland cow - true story), a jaunt to Amsterdam and to the Anne Frank House, and now to visit friends in England. The last visit saw me spend 10 hours walking the Edinburgh streets, visiting St. Mary's Close and Roslin Castle. I visited the auldest pub in the U.K. and wore the heels off of my good walking shoes. I can't wait to go back, to feel the cobblestones under my feet and rest my head where my heart lives.

So why the apprehension? I really do not know. I'm always welcomed with open arms. Even the rain feels good - and even the golf ball-sized hail stones I experienced in 1999 while walking past the old Scarlet Fever Hospital-cum-0ld age home where my gran once lived. Perhaps it's because I am afraid of the love affair's end. Is this the time when I'll notice the grime, the increased crime and the bad economy? I sure hope not. Perhaps the sound of the pipes marching down the Royal Mile will drowned it all out and I'll be free to continue to love my home-away-from home.

Until then, I'll just put my credit card away, start saving my cockles and sleep knowing that in three months' time I'll be back in the land of the thistle. God help me, how I love it, but did I have to book in the prime holiday season?