I just can’t stop thinking about you lately. I know it’s been because of family events. I miss you so. Your mannerisms, your voice, your support, your laugh, your gentle presence, your strength despite your despair.. I even miss your despair.  Everytime I listen to music and feel that passion and beauty, I think of you and am so thankful to have inherited that from you.

Here is a letter you wrote to Yvonne and Father David, reciting the letter I wrote to you in which I thanked you for everything you have given me and others blessed to have you in their lives:

“December 5, 2002

 

Today is St. Nicholas’ birthday. December 5th. Brings back a lot of wonderful memories from my childhood. However, I hope you don’t  mind. I am trying to get out of my “depressive feelings”. This evening I was sorting out a lot of stuff and I found this. Please allow me to share this with you. It is a letter from my little “rebellious” daughter (that is what Wilt used to  call her). She has a wonderful way of putting things on paper. So here goes:

Dear Mom:

These are all the things that you have given to me as my mother that I am thankful for, that make me who I am and remind me of you. They are what make up our close bond as mother and daughter, and what we share with the rest of the family.

 

– not forgetting our Dutch culture and heritage, incorporating this lifestyle into our lives which include the customs, cuisine, and contact with our relatives overseas.

– I love to travel ever since you first put me on the airplane and we arrived in Holland. I experienced a new land and the culture first hand. I love to try all sorts of new foods and tastes, because of your love and enthusiasm of cooking for people, and encouraging me to try new things.

– You have taught me compassion, gentleness, and kindness. You have shown me how important it is to carry out these traits everyday and how much they are a part of me. You have also taught me how important it is to be true to myself , no matter how sensitive or emotional, that it is okay to be this way, and not to be ashamed of those traits.

– You have always encouraged me to pursue my dreams. Never once have you ever told me that I would fail. You have never said any negative or discouraging things to me. You always believe in me, no matter what I do, and support everything that I do-never criticizine my actions. You don’t realize how much that means to me, and how that has helped me throughout my life. I always hear your words of encouragement and praise in my mind when I am down and hard on myself. You can never give too much of that to your child.

– Your love of music, art, and style have enriched my life in many ways, and have enhanced my own creativity and style.

– I thank you for large family dinners around the table, the aroma of good food, coffee, and freshly baked bread, classical music playing on Saturday mornings, trips to the garden market, the Dutch store, Albert’s Coffee Shop for raisin toast and tea, the taste of Worst (sausage) and kale and potatoes, Sunday soup, fresh whipped cream, letting me lick the bowl, stroopwafels, whatching outdoor evening Audrey Hepburn movies , Bing Crosby’s White Christmas, Harry Belafonte concerts, John Denver, Roger Whittaker, going to the Symphony, the Red Army Choir in Toronto (“Hey you in the red jacket, you should know better”) heh, heh! The list could go on and on.

Thanks for a lifetime of good memories.

I love you, Rochelle.

 

P.S. Re. the Red Army Choir. We went there, Rochelle and myself and when we came there was a demonstration across the street of Massy Hall in Toronto. That is when they said that “Hey you, in the red coat.”  She was still in Highschool in London and I remember her saying to me “No one of my friends mothers would ever take me to something like this”. But the music was wonderful and the dancing.

Anyway I better stop. Hope you don’t mind me sharing this.It made my day.

Frederika”

I can’t stop thanking you.

Disguised by striped and spotted fur, pointed ears and green eyes, she pokes at my ankles with her velvety paws whenever I sit down to write. I try to ignore her, but she jumps onto my desk and struts in front of my computer screen, blocking my view. Her tail is high in the air, swatting my face as it flicks from side to side. Bengal settles down comfortably into my papers, gazing at me with squinty eyes.

I stare back, awestruck by her cuteness. The vibrations of her purring can be felt through the desk, down to the hardwood floor, and back up the chair legs into my body. Hypnotized, I beckon for her to jump into my lap. She obeys, and snuggles into my chest as I rub her ears. I forget my deadline and am lost in the forest of super soft fur.

Instead of pushing her aside and plunging into my writing, I embellish her with play as she jumps off my lap. I shake a ball of newspaper tied to the end of some string which sends her into a chase of high leaps and scrambling tumbles. If I suddenly flick the ball up high, she opens her mouth and releases an odd, spitting chatter, threatening the would-be bird. Her claws skate over the hardwood floors as she slides from one end of the room to the other. This action is better than anything on television, and I hug my belly laughing as she crashes into the couch.

I  use the Bengal technique of procrastination with great caution, as I could be distracted for days without knowing.  It is practiced to relax me with feelings of well-being before the stress of the deadline wreaks havoc on my nervous system.

Awww, kitty-pooh-kisses-dooby-doo!

About five inches worth, with flecks of grey for seasoning. No one seems to notice, or care, or maybe they do, but are just being polite. My natural mousiness has reminded me of my impoverished state.   I can’t afford to get them done, and there’s no way in hell I’d do them myself. I tried once, twice, and three times a-brassy. Brassy on the verge of orange, actually. Very few blondes can get away with self-processing. And the ones who do don’t even need to colour it in the first place. They’re actually blonde.

Blondes, real ones, that is, are on the verge of becoming extinct, according to this BBC article.  Something about a recessive gene. True blondes only make up for about five percent of the entire population. These researchers also believe that the fake ones are to blame, since bottled-blondes are apparently more attractive to men than the natural ones.  Maybe it’s because we looky trampy, especially once the roots start to show. I notice I get more looks and compliments on my hair when I have roots. The Courtney Love look works for me.

Well, I’m not totally fake. As a kid, my hair was lighter,. My natural colour is not quite brown, not quite blonde, just in between, like dirty dishwater or weak milky tea. And I’ve tried colouring it dark brown, even reddish, but those colours make me look sick and pale. So blonde streaks it is, when I have have the cash. And not just any streaks. Few hairdressers know how to do them right. Most just dye it, so the roots show after two weeks, or they choose a garish tone that makes me look cheap and over-processed – shpank me, missy, let’s start breedin’!

So what’s my point? Vanity? Do you really care about my roots? My point is, I don’t care! I must be getting old! I am turning into one of those people. If I were a man, I’d have stubble and long, greasy hair. I already have a pot belly, the Midas touch. Jeez, why I don’t I just start shopping for a trailer? Surrey’s not so far away.

Or maybe it’s just the student/writer thing. Yeah, that’s it, that’s not so scary. That’s kind of cool, actually, artistic and free-spirited. But I’m not folky enough for that. To pull that off, I need to shack up on the Drive, get myself some hippy friends, wear hemp with patched jeans, shop at a co-op, and become vegan.

Crap. This new idenity-thing isn’t working.  I’m just broke, lazy, sick, depressed and … and… how can I finish that with a bang?
I’ll just blame my parents.

Peace out, dudes.

the rain falls
through murky tears
I lay down, weary
shipwrecked
from this battle of storms
grief lays her heavy hands
on my belly
telling me to rest
for now, let it be
nothing can be done
except to ride out the winds
that leave my flesh raw
the sting of betrayal
and lies
stays fresh for eternity
reviving the pain
from childhood
from death
from loneliness
without her presence
it’s hard to carry on
but I must
but for now
I weep

Last night on the Skytrain, I saw a real, live Homer Simpson. I couldn’t believe my eyes. He was bald, fat, wore wide blue pants that were floods, and he had the same voice and intelligence level. He was talking loudly on his cel phone. I know, Homer Simpson with a cell phone, how frightening. And it truly was. The conversation that followed was hard on the ears, yet extremely entertaining. That is how I determined his intelligence level.

“Guess what I found last night on the street!”

“DONUTS!”

“Yeah, a whole box, and I ate them all!”

“No, I offered her one, but she said no.”

“She said, ‘Go ahead, if you want to get sick!’ “

He mumbled a few other sentences, I couldn’t hear cuz of the train rumbling and squeaking.

He ends the call. Then his phone rings. He answers mid-ring. He starts yelling at the person to meet him at the Skytrain station. That conversation is cut short,  and he slaps his phone shut.

The phone rings again. My, this guy is popular in his world of fellow ignoramuses.

“Hello?”

“Oh YEAH! …  Yeah … Oh, hey! Guess what I did!”

“Yeah … Guess what I just did!”

“Heh, I pissed in the elevator.”

“I said, I PISSED IN THE ELEVATOR!”

” YEAH!”

“It was cool.”

“Okay, I’ll talk to you later, man!”

“Bye”

A few seconds later, his phone rings, and this time, I can hear his ringtone more clearly, a male country singer. Don’t ask me who, I hate country. Oh my, a redneck Homer!

“Hello?”

“Hey, I’m near the Broadway Station. YOU GET OFF THAT BUS RIGHT NOW!!”

He is transforming into Angry Dad. I consider myself lucky to witness this rare event of cartoon/human metamorphosis.

“YES! MEET ME THERE!”

“WHAT?”

“Okay fine, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He gets up from his seat and stands in front of the exit door right behind me, breathing heavily. He shuffles restlessly and begins pacing in circles.  I’m afraid he is going to pound the glass I’m leaning against because he knows I was listening to his conversation. This is Homer with a violent streak. Then he walks in front of me, down the aisle to the door furthest away. He stands really close to the glass as the train approaches the station. He looks at himself, making faces at his reflection, raising his eyebrows upside down, squinting and blinking heavily, scrunching his lips.

I have to get off too, and I go to the door in front of my seat. As we exit the train, he takes a sudden swing to the left, and practically bumps into me. I avoid him just in time. He glares at me, and I can hear him stop suddenly behind me. I’m afraid he’s gonna follow me for some strange reason. Maybe he thinks I have a donut stash in my backpack. I walk quickly across the platform and down the stairs. When I reach the bottom, I hear a man say, “The one time I go to use the escalator, it’s broken! Off all the times for it to be broken! Now I have to use the stairs!”  I look behind me, but thankfully it’s a man with his young boy, and he encourages the boy  to jump from the third stair up from the ground. Whew. I look up to the top of the stairs. Homer has disappeared.

I think about his conversation as I ride the B-Line bus home. Redneck clods should not be allowed to own cell phones. They should run ignoramus checks before the credit check. People’s ears are on the line.

I am still trying to poke out my mind’s eye.