Sassy Thoughts

My mother Marjorie ensured I grew up Catholic - deeply, thoroughly, unmistakably Catholic. The kind of Catholic that meant school uniforms, fish on Fridays, and Mass every Sunday whether you wanted to be there or not. But more than rituals and doctrine, what stayed with me - even now, when I’m no longer a practicing Catholic - is the former Pope Francis’s heartfelt call to justice, unity and looking out for the persecuted and forgotten. Those are still part of me, even if my church attendance record would suggest otherwise. I went to an all girls Catholic school, and as I recall, it was in grade 11 that I first ran afoul of my faith. Sister Agatha (pseudonym) taught us religious studies that year and she gave us an assignment to present an aspect of faith to the class. Now I can’t claim that I was a regular reader of Time magazine. But somehow I came across that publication that posed the question “Is God Dead?” on its cover. Perhaps I saw the cover of Time on a newspaper stand in the grocery store. Whatever! I somehow managed to notice the publication’s headline asking “Is God Dead?”. That sounded unabashedly provocative and at that stage of my life , I was steadfastly taking any opportunity to provoke. In light of that, I asked myself: “Why not give a talk that caused a bit of a stir? My topic was solidified: “Is God Dead?” I was naive not expect it to spark recrimination, not to mention bigger questions about change, meaning and permanence. I spoke to the class confidently and with determination, as if I really understood the topic. Waxing poetic, I somehow managed to mention some well known Jesuit priests, the Berrigan brothers, Daniel and Phillip who were antiwar activists and who came to to be part of a Catholic movement know as liberation theologians. (There is much more the the Berrigan brothers’ story. If interested read “Disarmed and Dangerous:The Radical Life and Times of Daniel and Phillip Berrigan, Brothers in Religious Faith and Disobedience”) To say the least, Sister Agatha did not think I was being clever. She was outraged. The next day she approached me in the hallway. Menacingly wagging her finger in my face, she declared I was in deep danger of losing my faith. She followed up with a phone call to my mother reiterating her concern. I was straying from the path. I might be forever lost. My mother - actually to my surprise - rose to my defense and stood up for me. She told Sister Agatha that I was thinking, questioning and engaging. “Isn’t that what faith should be?” she pronounced. “If belief can’t survive a teenager asking questions, maybe the problem isn’t the teenager. WOW!!Thanks Mom. That moment has stuck with me my whole life — not because of the challenging repercussions but because I learned what it is like to hold both tradition and curiosity in the same hand. To cherish where you came from, even as you dispute some parts of it. And despite all my doubt, despite my distance from the Church, there is one Catholic habit I have never shaken: Praying to St. Anthony. You may have heard of him? St. Anthony. He is the patron saint of lost things. You lose your keys, your wallet, a ring, an earring - you pray to St. Anthony. “Tony, Tony, look around, something’s lost and must be found.” I have endless stories of how praying to St Anthony for lost objects has mysteriously recovered the misplaced. The most recent incident involves my husband who for three days could not find his passport. Searching everywhere, retracing his steps, Ross was stymied. He carries what I call a “murse” aka a man purse. Consumed with retrieving his passport, Ross called everywhere he could remember where he had been with his passport. Interspersed with that, he kept rechecking his murse - like about 4 times. At this point I intervened. Pray to St. Anthony I told him. And I insisted he promise to donate money to a charity of his choice. Failure to pay up results in St. Anthony striking you from his “list”. “ So I was thinking $25.00” Ross said. “No way,” I replied. “A passport is worth at least $200.” It was not long after this conversation that Ross took one last dive into his murse. He came to me with an Cheshire Cat on his face. The passport was found! I have no logical explanation for this phenomena. But I have story after story where I swore I had looked everywhere, given up hope - and then, sometimes minutes or even months after that whispered prayer, the lost object was found. A necklace under a rug. A set of keys in a pocket I’d checked five times. A photo wedged between pages. Coincidence? Maybe. But I keep praying. And things keep showing up. That’s faith, in a way I think. Or maybe it’s just hope expressed differently. Either way, I find it comforting. So no, I don’t go to Mass every week. I don’t memorize encyclicals or make religious retreats. (Although I can, to this day, recite almost all of the Baltimore catechism-including listing the seven gifts of the Holy Ghost). But I do believe in social justice. I believe in community. I believe in standing up when someone tries to shut you down. I believe in mystery, and ritual, and that strange feeling when something lost is found again. And I still reach out to St. Anthony when I’ve misplaced my car keys. Some things, it seems, you never really lose.

Winnipeg: A Burger Joint With A Story You can’t ever underestimate the influence of where and when you grew up. Childhood memories and experiences help shape our world view and create a blueprint for life. My childhood time in my hometown of Winnipeg Manitoba is certainly no exception! It is filled with positive nostalgia and yes, more than a few regrets. But this story is about fond moments and lasting impressions. Nested in the heart of Canada’s prairies, Winnipeg has recently been called one of our country’s best kept secrets (Winnipeg: A Hidden Gem in the Heart of Canada). At its center lies The Forks, an historic meeting place at the confluence of the Red and Assiniboine rivers. This vibrant area is alive with multiple family-friendly features from a children’s museum to funky boutiques and the Winnipeg Goldeyes baseball stadium. A focal feature of the Forks is the Canadian Museum for Human Rights.

I like to say that I started my career on Broadway. In my imagination I played Maria in West Side Story in that 1960s musical hit or Barbara Streisand in Funny Girl. Never mind the fact that I have no singing voice or any substantive acting ability. I unequivocally fantasized reading glowing reviews and waving to adoring fans. I also dreamt of growing a bust that would fit a bra size bigger than double A!! But fantasies are just that: fantasies. They often shape desires and can help us deal with reality – pleasant or otherwise.

Strange what memories stay with you. A vivid one I remember is a Halloween night that was mixed with strong emotions and a lesson learned. It happened on the last night of October in Victoria British Columbia when I was seven years old. The late fall evening was warm, even by west coast standards. A gentle breeze rustled the fallen leaves on the ground . The moon shone brightly, casting an eerie glow over the streets as I prepared for my annual trick-or-treating adventure.

It was 1982 on an unbearably cold January day in Edmonton when I first met a beautiful early 30s woman named Peggy. That day the wintery streets were slick with black ice and I was nervous navigating the winding road to my destination. The bottom of my used car hit the snow windrows left by the snowplough that had cleared the streets in the wee hours of the morning. Well before high tech navigation aids were available, I relied on a city map to find my way to the family sports club we had recently joined.

The story started earlier this year. It was a typical January day in Palm Desert, California. The sky was awash in sunshine and the Santa Ana winds were beginning to make their presence known. I was self congratulatory about completing my early morning online workout that emphasized balance and strength, and I was contemplating the agenda for the rest of the day. My iPhone rang on FaceTime video and I saw my sister, Margaret Ann’s picture appear. My two sisters (Margaret- Ann and Gail) and I are in regular contact so it was absolutely normal to hear from Margie. Little did I suspect that the ordinary was about to become the extraordinary! What my youngest sister shared with me changed our family forever. It is rooted in a family joke that morphed into a family gift.

The wide meadow, alive with the sound of crickets, was just down from Carnarvon Street and across from Landsdowne Avenue in Victoria. As I remember, it was wild and awash with tall green grass, thick bushes and small trees that afforded plenty of possible hiding places. Landsdowne was a busy street and there was a rule in our household that dictated my younger bother Hugh and I were forbidden from crossing it. The same went for all of the children in our neighbourhood. We all knew there would be hell to pay if we were caught disobeying this order.

My maternal grandmother was named Josephine but everyone called her Josie. To me, my siblings and my cousins she was called “Grannie McGurran”. She was vivacious and assertive especially by stereotypical grandmother standards.

“Friendship is the hardest thing in the world to explain. It is not something you learn in school. But if you haven’t learned the meaning of friendship, you really haven’t learned anything” – Mohammad Ali

“WE ALL SEE THE WORLD THROUGH THE PRISM WE LOOK AT IT THROUGH: BEHIND THE DIFFERENTLY SHADED GLASSES WE METAPHORICALLY WEAR”…PETER SANTENELLO

To say that I am anxious to get past the pandemic is an understatement tantamount to calling the Beatles a good band or declaring that when the internet came a few things changed. Nonetheless, I can hardly wait to take off my jeans and tee shirt, don a party dress and host a 100 person party to celebrate the end of Covid restrictions. I will be over the moon when I can hug every one of my guests – young, old or in between.

I was twelve when I first remember “taking on the system”. It was a wintery evening like most other January nights in Winnipeg. Temperatures were well below what any human being should be expected to withstand. A sea of snow covered our yard and my two younger brothers were arguing over whose turn it was to shovel our driveway, punctuating their points with a few not so well placed jabs to each other’s shoulders. Rough housing is what Dad called it, saying it with a certain amount of pride. I was smug in the confidence that the shovelling debate excluded me because at the time in my family, my gender kept me out of contention for such a chore. I believe I had just finished doing the dishes (mismatched melmac plates that came “for free” inside boxes of laundry detergent). I was layering myself into bulky ski pants, thick sweaters, a pair of mismatched mittens and a white “fun fur” hat I bought on sale downtown at The Bay. I was on my way to our local branch of the library, a six block walk.

Life for my father, Alexander Joseph Gillis, was not a walk in the park but it was a wonderful gift. His frequently reiterated family stories, which he told to his 5 children on Sunday afternoons amid melodic riffs from a long playing record, helped create my understanding of dad’s world. The way he proudly told it, his family was a hard working group who were “directly” descended from Scotland’s Bonnie Prince Charlie. I never saw him wear a kilt but I do remember him (maybe too often) raising a glass and saying Slainte – Scottish for “cheers”!

I confess I am (in some ways) a Facebook “lurker” or what some might call a FB voyeur. According to one online source the “official” Facebook lurker is “one who spends time on Facebook, but avoids making his/her presence known with comments, likes, or status updates.” This same internet search site claimed that “a true lurker blatantly mocks the regular Facebook users for posting information on the ubiquitous site, but acts as if he/she is never, well… lurking there.” I certainly do not disparage any of the people I follow on Facebook so I tried to come up with a term that better describes me. How about – I am a serial spectator?

“We have had enough! We need this to be over.” Sound at all familiar? Like many others I am confessing to compliance fatigue. I call it the point at which many of the precautionary measures to prevent COVID-19 spread are starting to feel too much to sustain. It is the psychological place we reach where mental health supersedes the need to combat physical illness. CTV news reported the following “If you have found you’re no longer disinfecting your hands as often or becoming more lenient toward unnecessary trips outside, you’re not alone. The unintentional phenomenon is ‘caution fatigue’ . Dangerous? Yes! Surprising? No!

The covid pandemic has presented a myriad of daunting challenges. Of course, the paramount issue is health and all it’s accompanying concerns. This 2020 epidemic has far-reaching and serious repercussions: economic, political and social to name a few. One offshoot of the Covid crisis that is top of mind for me is the closing of the border between the U.S.A and Canada.

We live storied lives and our stories are a powerful way to help us understand our world, inspire us and create solid connections with each other. Whether it is a parable from Aesop’s fables or a lyric laden country western song, storytelling is universal. Stories transport us from the mundane to the extraordinary and often allow us to walk in someone else’s shoes. Stories assist us in making sense of what can seem an illogical world. Certainly, telling our stories during this current pandemic could provide a vital connection to each other and perhaps strike a collective nerve. And if we are lucky enough they could help us escape to another reality.

Every year, rain or shine, on July 1, Canada commemorates the anniversary of Canadian Confederation when three separate colonies of the Province of Canada united to become the Dominion of Canada. Canada Day, often called Canada’s birthday, is traditionally celebrated with parades, fireworks, barbecues and fairs. Sadly, this year, the Covid pandemic restrictions halted all such large public gatherings. My husband and I celebrated alone at our summer lake home, eating barbecued hamburgers and McCains french fries. Since we were not enjoying our usually active Canada Day, I decided to reflect on some distinctive Canadian characteristics.

The last Sunday morning in May 2020 started with what for me, has become a weekend household tradition. As per usual, after rousing my husband Ross at about 7am, my thoughtful partner ambled downstairs to make us two steaming cups of cappuccino. We then tuned into the Sunday morning tv news shows in an ongoing effort to keep us up to date on current affairs. Often these programs initiate family “social discourse” with which either of us may feel strongly aligned or misaligned with the points of view voiced by various “experts”. As you may have guessed, it is not unusual that occasionally we have differences of opinion. Gotta love marriage!

Last Sunday was a perfect Alberta day in May. The trees were finally budding and the grass was confidently approaching a rich green color. Not a cloud in the sky, it seemed the day was promising a cheery atmosphere that defied the challenging pandemic restrictions.

This time four years ago my mother, 96 year old Marjorie Elizabeth, was living in the loving home of my sister and brother in-law in Ottawa, Canada. Dealing with dementia, Mom nonetheless had a good quality of life sharing her days with an amazing caregiver Helen, and her beloved pet parrot Mandela, whom she often called Rembrandt! Go figure. Mom was an amateur artist, focusing on landscapes and florals, so perhaps the Rembrandt connection. She loved that noisy bird even though her pet tolerated no one but his owner, squawking and swooping when others entered “his” room. My mother was so well supported by my siblings, her caregivers, friends and Rembrandt, that it seemed to me she would live forever.

If you are old enough to remember the muscular cartoon character Popeye the Sailor Man you are likely to recognize the phrase “I Yam what I Yam”. And, your memory might also include Popeye’s “significant other”, Olive Oyl. Created around the 1920s, the two cartoon characters were emblematic of male and female societal roles predominant at the time. Both representations of these personalities were awash with what today would be deemed restrictive stereotypes. Tough guy Popeye was for the most part, a one dimensional personality. Olive’s interaction with Popeye often included these pleas to the spinach eating bruiser: “Oh, dear! Help Popeye!”. Nonetheless, what is evident is the limiting and clear distinction of societal gender roles that reflected the norms of the era and informed gender generalizations that held fast for decades.

As my family can attest, I have far from perfect pitch and as the old saying goes: “I have more luck carrying a bucket then carrying a tune.” My grandchildren respectfully listen to my off tune lullabies in hopeful anticipation that I will end the serenade sooner than later. Perhaps in spite of or even because of this handicap, music has become a central part of my life. Whether puttering in the kitchen, reading a favorite novel or playing canasta on-line, music is in the background of most of my daily activities.

There is not much doubt that the corona virus pandemic has far reaching implications for today and for the days to come. The whole world has been forced to adjust to new norms and different ways of interacting. When making connections with my adult friends, the topic of conversation inevitably begins and ends with how we are coping with self isolation. But what are our young children thinking and feeling during this changed time?

“The colour of your hair can determine your fate in the end” said the actress Helen Hayes. Perhaps a little overstated, the statement underscores there is no denying our self isolation has prompted many of us to tackle self administered aesthetic “procedures” in order to manage our looks. The beauty challenges for me are myriad and daunting. From dealing with outgrown gel nails, to attempting to handle serious pedicure issues to covering grey root growth, to tackling hair trimming – the reality of the stay at home order as it influences our appearance is taxing.

Waking up in Edmonton this Easter Monday, we were greeted by brilliant sunshine, snow covered lawns and temperatures of -11C. The below normal weather conditions seem to mimic the abnormal lives we are currently living.

One of my good friends took the time to email a wonderfully stirring dance video: Born To Be Alive. Do yourselves an uplifting favor and take several minutes to view this delightfully elevating broadcast. The lyrics and melody went a long way to cheer me and the choreography of decades worth of fabulous dancers illustrating their skills was amazing.

I have a confession to make. Not the kind that involves a confessional where your kneel, make the sign of the cross and disclose a litany of venial and/or mortal sins to the priest seated behind the mesh screen. No, mine is more of an admission – an acknowledgement that I am a technological infant. As far as tech goes, I am in grade one. During this pandemic I am acutely aware that I need a graduate degree. When it comes to research, I harken back to the days of the Dewey decimal system. Rummaging through card catalogues housed in libraries, I managed to research topics for my university classes. Since I never learned to type (for some reason I chose Latin and physics!), I wrote essays in longhand – painstakingly making use of the cursive writing most of us learned in grade three.

I spent much of the earlier part of my adult life adjusting to new environments, making moves from city to city about once every four years as my husband’s job required. We transferred to several Canadian urban areas, two in the west and one in the more eastern part of our country. Each relocation involved uprooting children who were not always willing or enthusiastic participants in what we assured them would be an amazing adventure. For each in the family, every transfer meant leaving friends behind and adjusting to new realities- different school systems, diverse community cultures and changed business roles.

By all measures I am a fully qualified, supported by date of birth, baby boomer. As I enter the twelfth day of self isolation during this coronavirus virus pandemic I seem to be given to nostalgia about my growing up years.

Yesterday, in what has become the new normal, I awoke and began my day – attempting to create some kind of a reasonable morning routine. Gingerly hop out of bed: Check . Brew some English breakfast tea: Check. Pull on my favorite lulus: Check . Jump on the stationary bike: Check.