Tag: family

Re: Tender

When my mind is in a whirl over things domestic or international, I try a little tenderness. Which is not just a classic Otis Redding song but a way to shift my attitude. Music helps me set the course for a new perspective that is more harmonious because of its positivity.

Tender is a word that can be viewed from many perspectives. For instance, I like to think of myself in this word’s noun form; as in, One Who Tends. I like to tend to my tiny garden occasionally. I like to take care of business by tending to the bills and other finances of our household. I love tending to my lover. I think every work-er is also a tend-er since he or she cares for the final product of their labour. When I was a teacher of small kids I loved attending to the instructional needs of the members of my classroom. In that situation I also tried to be tender in the performance of my duty towards the little rascals.

Many of my wee students once had a liking for the Care Bears, a heavily advertised multi-media marketing bonanza that started with a delightful series of paintings by Elena Kucharik in 1981. The collection was an inspiration for expansive commercialization (cards, dolls, clothes, toys, records, books, television, etc.) but the central theme of friendship, community, and caring was touching for many folks, young or old. One of the ten original Care Bear characters was Tender Heart. The stuffed toy version was a favourite of my youngest son for so long he wore the fabric heart off of his plush chest. After so much hugging and squeezing you might say that this comfort-toy became tenderized.

I find the use of the restaurant item Chicken Tenders rather disturbing even though they are delicious. Recently our BC Ferries ‘put out a tender’ inviting bids for construction of a new line of coastal ships, which had me thinking about their intent. Perhaps the management team was hoping only ship builders promising tender-loving-care would apply. Maybe the winning bidder would have proven to employ the tenderest engineers when it came to their craft. Hard to say.

Showing tenderness towards an object like a kitchen appliance is one thing, but having tender thoughts towards another human being isn’t always easy. If we are a caregiver, for example, we may still be tender from wounds inflicted by the very person we currently look after. Treating ourselves with tenderness may be even more difficult if we suffer guilt from past performance. When my emotional scars ache I surprise myself by finding stable ground in a musical phrase. A key word like tender can lead me to songs containing that word or sentiment. I can move from Grumpy Care Bear to Tenderheart by searching Youtube for musical references. The Beegees asked for tenderness from Fanny. Elvis Presley pleaded, Love Me Tender. The group General Public wondered where it was and Paul Simon couldn’t find any. Otis Redding had tenderness right when he crooned, “It makes it easier, easier to bear.”

Re: Command

At a hockey game in February, 2025, a singer named Chantal Kreviazuk chose to change the lyrics to Canada’s national anthem. It was a lyric heard around the world as a sign of protest over U.S. trumpian trade tariffs placed on their neighbour in the true north, strong and free. That last bit isn’t the lyric change, just a bit of cheekiness from me. What Ms.K. did was switch “in all of us command” to “that only us command” making the point that Canada will never become the 51st state, and we intend to stand on guard for us.

The word Command has a military sound. An order is given by a Commander, who is at the top of a Chain of Command. Those in military regalia have a Commanding Presence. I get a shiver when I reread those three sentences because I picture a pointed gun, directed at me to obey ASAP! Command rhymes with Demand which is what you are making if you are inviting someone to toe-the-line. That idea may be acceptable for training a dog on a leash. But people are not pets. We have agency. Humans are not meant to be commanded. We make our own rules. At least in a democratic society we do.

We can direct ourselves, if we agree on the commandments. If we can decide on a principle then we can try to live by it. This is sometimes easier said than done, but before you dismiss the idea consider that the use of commandments is not without precedent. Think about Moses. He was the guy in the Bible who asked his god for direction when the masses became unruly and started worshipping golden things. Since his god was the Commander of that time, Moses probably thought if he had some rules carved in stone his people wouldn’t mock his efforts to be leader of the pack, or flock, or whatever society was destined to become when the promised land was discovered. Luckily Moses got his tablets or all hell might have broken loose.

My summary of these biblical ten commandments break down this way: Love THE deity (3 mentions), Love your parents, Don’t steal (3 mentions), Don’t covet (2 mentions), and my favourite, Don’t lie about your neighbour. This is not a bad list, as lists go, but similar lists in other religions haven’t stopped war, ended poverty or made our planet any more congenial for their observance, strict or otherwise. I guess all commandments are meant to be broken. Such is the way of the human flesh. I would be sounding facetious if I wasn’t so flippant. I had only four basic rules as a young father, gently commanding my three sons to: Prioritize, Speak Truth, Be Brave, Show Kindness. As their commander for a time, I think our family ship sailed pretty well.

That hockey game between USA/Canada? The record will show that we won 3-2. While that wasn’t a commanding score, the victory felt like it proved the point of our self-determination.

Re: Claudia

In any journey to understand words, in whatever language you use, I feel that emotion often supersedes meaning. For instance, some of us might have trouble even saying a word like Love, let alone trying to define it. The word Love is rich with meaning within the context of a sentence and exquisitely profound when used to understand the depth of a relationship. Let’s face it, some words are utile only. Other words are magical enough to carry a spirit.

Proper nouns are amazing in that regard. The naming of someone immediately makes the qualities of that person unique. Claudia is a Spirit Grandma to three beautiful grandchildren who were born after she died. I love the way her being is honoured with this evocative title. Claudia was once my best friend, my wife and a mother to three precious sons. She and I shared a quarter of a century together before she succumbed to a quickly spreading cancer. To the very end, Claudia was resolute that she had had a good life; one filled with activities, challenges and people who mattered.

Claudia is an uncommon name, befitting a woman unusual for her time. She loved things that resonated with the past. In a time when being a homemaker was losing its efficacy, even looked down upon as a career choice, Claudia enrolled in a University program focussing on Home Economics subjects. In the early seventies, the Macdonald Institute at Guelph University was often derided as leading to a Mrs. Degree. One of the first things that fascinated me about this woman with an old fashioned name was that she made her own clothes. She had been doing it since elementary school, won several contests, entered many fashion shows and was now specializing in the textile arts. I met her at a party, hosted by her friends, where she told me all this as I fell in love with her. Later, when we were planning our marriage, she stated emphatically that she aspired to being a homemaker. I couldn’t have asked for a better mate in that regard. Our house was a very, very, very fine house.

I wonder when a word becomes more than a word. A person’s name is an extraordinary use of a single word. It’s when a noun becomes a proper noun, almost giving it more value. When parents struggle over what word to use to describe their child no wonder there is much to debate and decide. Claudia is indistinguishable to me. Probably because I loved the person attached to that name. I’m sure there are other folks with the name Claudia, but none come to mind when I think of that word.

On paper, in text, Claudia is just a word. It is hard for me to type this word without all sorts of sights, sounds and feelings tumbling out of my brain. Before her death at age fifty, Claudia told me that she had lived the life she wanted, however short. Others, who knew of this particular Claudia, could tell you their own marvellous stories.

Re: Photo

My bride has a new found passion. She’s been loving her cell phone and its photographical features. She goes to a photo club once a week to share her work and gain knowledge about the art form. I love it when she shares her homework with me; discussing the theme for the week’s assignments, showing me her latest on-screen captures, scrolling through the dozens of shots of charmingly photographable subjects while deciding which one has just the right composition.

I love the Kodachrome Song by Paul Simon; “makes you feel all the world’s a sunny day!” The lyrics conjure a picture of happy times. Times of the past seen through the lens of a camera. But before we get too sentimental let’s remember that those cameras, not the ones now compressed into our digital devices, used to be lugged around by a shoulder strap that dug a groove in your neck. I’ve owned all kinds of photographic devices. I started with one of those little brown boxes called Brownies. The film was expensive and therefore precious. I remember counting down the twelve shots, one by one until I turned the roll in to a developer who would give me single photos, on magical paper, that would remind me of how much fun I had at the beach. Back then, I kept the scalloped edge photos in a biscuit tin just like my mom had once kept her sepia coloured treasures of ancient family poses.

Photofinishing is not just what horses do in a close race. My former father-in-law used to have his own darkroom, thereby expressing his creativity while saving film processing fees. He died before the digital age but he would have had all the photoshop style software and apps to go with his hobby for sure. As I got older I was happy to transfer all the heritage slides onto a flash drive as a Christmas gift for my now grown three sons. Memories they can share over social media platforms. Pictures that are now part of The Cloud; that awesome computer photo and data bank that makes my head spin: “it’s a wonder I can think at all.”

Along with my first child I purchased a second-hand SLR Canon camera. I became the Family Photographer, with all the honours and responsibilities that came with that title. The device itself weighed several pounds and as I collected lenses and filters I needed a small suitcase to carry all the equipment. I call this time My Slide Period since I felt I was becoming a true artist of film. Mounds of slides required a filing system. A projector and screen were purchased for family fun. I entertained guests who would always seem polite and interested. Not!

My passionate wife is learning new skills and experiencing the world in a creative way, all because of a device that lets her send a message plus photos to people anywhere in the world. There’s always a new improved IPhone, promising astounding photo features.

“I can read the writing on the wall.”

Re: Dad

Some words stand for a lot of stuff. To me, Dad is exclusive. Well, he was also a dad to my sister but they’re both dead now. In my memory he is the man who led the way. My dad was my elder: The one who made me ponder, made me proud, made me bashful, made me silly, made me ashamed. He patterned me in ways I’m still trying to figure out.

Like sons everywhere, I looked to my dad first as a protector. My first recollection of him is when he came looking for me because I was late for dinner. I believe I was still in diapers, at least I remember my pants were very wet from playing in a puddle, where he found me. He wasn’t angry. He took me by the hand and led me back to the house where my mom would surely give me a talking to. I don’t remember her lecture only that Dad changed my clothes and sat me down at the table in front of something hot to eat.

I rarely think of my dad as a father. There are many words in many languages for the patriarch of the family. Others may call out Pere, Papa, Papi, Apa, Vader, Tati, Baba or other words unrecognizable to my English speaking ears. My Polish born daughter-in-law sometimes calls me Tato. My own son is called Po by his son. My niece used to call my dad Popop when she was little. The word father is very generic sounding to me; as in everyone has a father. It is also religious sounding; as in ‘Our Father’. That father is always in heaven, far away and out of sight.

My father was a busy fellow during my growing up years. He was a shift worker at a factory so I rarely saw him until dinnertime. On weekends he often had another job which brought our family of four enough money to make ends meet. Those ends came together for me during our annual camping trip to the ocean. Dad became a different character altogether during these adventures: More playful. More thoughtful. With up to two weeks to play, my dad would not de-stress so much as re-create. Here at beach side I would learn more of his past life, his dreams, and his wonderings. He had a life before me? As I got older, I discovered I was only part of the timeline for this man I called Dad.

I’m still puzzling over the meaning of my dad in my life. Biologically, I believe there may be a genetic connection when it comes to my curiosity and creativity. I’ve been told I have a calm disposition and that comes from my father too. He demonstrated a love of nature, art and an optimism regarding his fellow humans. I can’t say he actually taught me much other than to be careful who I chose to be my wife.

My dad died alone, on a distant shore. I hope his final thoughts were happy ones.

Re: Kept

I don’t have any well kept secrets because I’ve never been good at hiding things. I don’t enjoy keeping people guessing if there is news to tell. I can keep to my own thoughts though, and I’ve sometimes kept a diary. I’m reasonably good at keeping up with a conversation. I’ve kept going to work when it was the last thing I wanted to do just to keep up appearances. I have reluctantly worn a silly hat in keeping with the situation.

Julia is a television series created by Daniel Goldfarb. In the second season, episode two Stockard Channing has a guest role as Frances Field. While at a dinner gathering, her character makes a short speech. Frances says” “We’re all kept…I know I’ve been kept. I was kept by my late husband…I assume you’re kept…good fortune comes and goes. Here’s to sharing everything you have. Here’s to being kept.” There is a long pause as people leave the table saying goodnight. Frances turns to her date and says, “Was it something I said?”

I wondered about that speech. I tried to trace examples in my life of being kept. I asked my 95 year old special mom for an opinion. She said immediately “I am kept” and then “but I don’t feel hard done by.” My mother-in-law is such a realist when it comes to figuring out life. Being almost blind and hard of hearing means she is very dependent on others for her care. So in that way she is kept, but content and grateful to be so, we mutually concluded. Her response has kept me thinking.

The phrase ‘kept woman’ flashed through my mind as I reviewed that conversation. I started to realize that Ms.Field was perhaps feeling equally blessed when she gave that dinner toast. She felt her needs were being looked after and she didn’t mind suggesting that some of her autonomy had been lost as a result of being kept. She was being realistic however, in implying that getting along in life requires exchanges and compromises that don’t necessarily have to diminish one’s character.

Yet where do we draw a line for ourselves? I don’t wish to be someone’s puppet; kept on strings in a case, in a corner. Neither do I wish to be in the driver’s seat for someone else. I respect that everyone has a right to their own life and to live it as they please. For a number of years in my youth I was often left in charge of my sister. Our mother made it clear that she didn’t want us to look unkempt, lest neighbours grow suspicious of her shirking her parental responsibilities. I was expected to get my sister to and from school, sometimes also making her lunches and dinners. I was told to look after her until mom or dad came home from work. I was my sister’s keeper.

My parents kept me in line. I became responsible as a result (perhaps neurotically so). I’ll continue to share parts of me. And I’ll show gratitude whenever someone chooses to look after my needs.

Re: Uncle

I make a point of talking to my uncle every month. I use my computer so I can see him and because it is a free way to connect since he lives way across the Atlantic Ocean. He’s the only uncle I have left, so I feel a certain responsibility. He is my auntie’s husband after all. But that doesn’t really explain things.

As kids we sometimes cry out “Uncle” when we are in a wrestling hold. It might be a universal safe word that tells our playmate/opponent that we’ve had enough and we give in before further damage is done. Once during an overnight adventure with my scout pack I got into a bear cub like scuffle with another boy. Saying Uncle to his aggression made me feel ashamed. I remember leaving the scene shouting that he would be sorry, “Just you wait! I’ll be famous one day!” I screamed.

I showed him.

Parents who had children in the fifties would advise their kids to call family friends Uncle or Aunt to somehow distinguish them from untrustworthy strangers. Even as a kid this creeped me out that I had an Uncle Frank even though he wasn’t a REAL uncle. From my parent’s point of view I suppose this might be an innocent bit of labelling in the name of ranking a friendship. Such confusion of terms and association has led to child abuse all in the effort to show familiarity. Sticks and stones eh.

My authentic uncle in England has been an important addition to my life even though we have only been together about a half dozen times. He was a buddy to me when I had a brief solo adventure in Europe that went bust in my late teens. I learned how to sail under his tutelage. Once he travelled to Canada while I was raising a young family of my own. I took him on his first fishing trip, we travelled together with my dad and eldest son on a northern train trip. During this time, I hosted a backyard salmon bake with gallons and gallons of wine and we talked about Shakespeare’s impact on the world until the stars above our heads astounded us with their brilliance.

And now I watch him getting old on Skype. I want him to remain as he was but he gets forgetful even amidst a short conversation. I’m not getting any younger either and my uncle is a reminder that life is finite. Covid has shown us that no one lasts forever. As long as we have a present we don’t have to rely on memories to buoy us up. So I call him to remind him of the fun we had together and to thank him for being the elder in my life. I wonder to myself how the past can invade the present, grasping us, like in a wrestling match.

I’ll say Uncle to death’s embrace at some point. For now, I’ll surrender to the joy that is mine, today. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eaCDXcXnpVI

Re: X

But X is not a word, I hear you thinking. And you are right and I know I’m cheating in my journey of looking at my life through the magic of words. I’ve used one letter before however: The letter I, which is truly a word in a letter, through which I could describe me. When it comes down to it, language is really a bunch of symbols that stand for something. In this case the single letter X conjures up an extraordinary assortment of things for me.

When I was a kid pirates held an oversized fascination. I used to love going on treasure hunts that my dad would design out of obscure clues. Sometimes he would hand me a map with a prominent X marking where my surprise would be hiding. The quest was never easy and most times I sought extra hints which would encourage my father to pretend to be Blackbeard or the dreaded pirate Bartholomew Roberts. My sons have memories of playing with their granddad using the couch as a ship sailing to uncharted islands searching for buried treasure. I can still hear them all giggling excitedly in faux fear as they fell overboard into shark infested waters. We all shared a love for the film Captain Blood, starring Errol Flynn as the swashbuckler. Much later, after my father had died, I thought of him as I watched the exceptionally good movie, The Princess Bride. I hope to share this film with my grandkids.

I have fond memories of some Xrated films I snuck into as a teen. My friend, who looked older than I did, would get the tickets while I hung back down the street. Knowing I would be quizzed by my mom when I got home I had to gather a few facts about another movie playing in the same area. Digital parental locks on computers and other media make it easier for adults to exclude their children from this type of content but I think if there is a will, there is a way. I wonder if the internet makes it easier to lie imaginatively.

Normally I wear a large sized shirt, but recently I’ve noticed that my wardrobe has been shrinking. I could put it down to a laundry excuse; the dryer was too hot for example. That would work if it was only one item. I think I’ve resolved that my Covid girth is to blame so my next trip to the store will find me looking through the XLarge rack. I will not be able to explain my behaviour if I have to purchase an XXLarge. My shriek will echo throughout the halls of the mall, “Nooooo!”

Size is not the only change that comes with aging. Forgetting where you put things, scabs appearing without remembering you banged into something, missing activities because you are just too pooped to carry on. Life is sometimes learning to say goodbye. I know my time is coming. Maybe there will be a marker somewhere: X marks the spot.

Re: Family

I sit perplexed, thinking I have taken up residence in a snow globe. Flakes of white float about me while I remain, a tiny plastic figure, securely fastened. Presently, I feel like life is swirling around me. There are few familiar things to remind me of time or space. My extended family is scattered and I am tethered to a temporary existence that seems destined to be permanent.

Elders in my family are approaching death. At a time when a shared experience is almost mandatory these two souls are turning their backs on reality. We have an apartment nearby the care giving scene. Younger members of the fam have come to visit and offer their unique words of kindness, understanding and support. Friends too, have offered grace, humour and encouragement. These are the times we all look for signs of familiarity.

Family is defined differently from person to person. The word conjures up feelings of warmth and harmony for some, discord and coldness for others. Family was so rigidly defined by my first set of parental in-laws that, when their daughter died, I was written out of the will. Some families have members referred to as black sheep. My mother once wrote off several in her clan, vowing never to have them darken her door again. My father, in contrast, welcomed all as if they were blood relations. My sister and I were bonded only through our DNA. Our characters were as different as night and day, therefore I find the term family is best defined by closeness to another rather than genetic similarities. Blood is thicker than water but so what?

I have felt a soul connection with many, yet my reserved nature holds me back from collecting friends as family. I bristle when a boss in a work environment encourages us all to be like a family. Surprisingly, I can tear up when witnessing signs of a universal family yet it has to be at a certain remove. For example I love marching with crowds committed to a cause yet intimate Christmas gatherings of ‘the whole fam damnly’ put me on edge. On those occasions I keep looking for a singleton to share some meaningful thoughts of quiet reflection. In certain contexts the family collective can generate within me a sense of claustrophobia.

During a recent conversation with my stepson, I remarked how I envied his ability to maintain friendships. Unlike me, he seems able to spread his familial energy to help others feel included. In his company you feel his empathy and willingness to be a part of your life. I am unable to spread myself that thinly. My emotional capacity appears limited to one key person. My head puts Love and Family in the same mental box so I have trouble sorting out the contents. I feel stressed dividing my attention between multiple individuals while reciprocity is paramount in my relationship guidebook. In truth I am a son, father, uncle, nephew, husband and reluctant friend.

My wife understands all this about me and I am blessed. 

Re: Cream

I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream. I have received news that my almost three year old grandson was super excited to get his first cone from a neighbourhood truck. And here I thought those musical chiming vehicles were a thing of the past. On the other end of the age spectrum my mother-in-law still loves a well scooped ice cream in a waffle cone and she currently can’t get enough of cream-style corn either, something I’ve loved for years.

During my first year of teaching in Timmins, Ontario, I lived next to the Eplett’s Dairy plant. Just half a block away, if the wind was right, we could smell a sweetness in the air when they poured the ice cream into large four litre plastic tubs. We bought all our warehouse priced creamery stuff from there. When my kids were little they used the empty tubs for all sorts of woodsy adventures, carrying supplies, picking blueberries or capturing insects. I still have items in my closet that are wrapped in old fashioned branded plastic milk bags.

Ahh, slipping the bonds of time! My first job summer job was delivering creamery products in glass bottles from a truck, directly to people’s doorstep. My boss drove while I ran back and forth across the suburban streets. I was only nine yet my folks were fine with the arrangement as they were friends with the milkman. I was up by five and we finished our route by 9ish. I could drink all the chocolate milk I could gulp between delivery stops. At the end of each week I was paid cash. If I didn’t break any bottles, I was allowed to take home a carton of strawberry ice cream. When I was 12 I developed a passion for creamsicles. I let my first girlfriend take a bite of mine. As our relationship grew later that summer she invited me to her grandparent’s farm for peaches and cream corn, boiled in a huge pot. We could eat as many as we wanted rolled in large blocks of butter. It was likely no coincidence that I creamed my jeans for the first time that day.

My grandmother enjoyed being told that she looked like Queen Elizabeth II. She said she owed her creamy complexion to the British dampness, even as she complained of another rainy day. She always thought cream was best with her tea and loved clotted cream on her pastries. She once effusively congratulated me for graduating university by telling me I was the cream that had risen to the top of the Thompson clan. I thought of her just the other day as I put my coffee cream in the back of the fridge as per her long forgotten instruction. Her personality was prickly but she had a sentimental heart, much like Jean Brodie, the title character in a book by Muriel Spark, who said of her students; “All my pupils are the creme de la creme.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CXA0N55c3iw