Unmistakable passion

Have you ever seen someone passionate about something? I mean deep, unmistakable passion. I have. I’ll be honest, it didn’t quite happen the first time I saw her play, it came years later. But I think I knew when I saw that 4 year olds tight grip on a bow and the violin propped ever so awkwardly on her shoulder, that she would make it work. She just has that quality about her. Meet Sarah Harrigan, my cousin.

As a kid, she was the loudest. She also had the biggest spirit. Now, she’s a little quieter. Focused, you could say. But her spirit, that’s even bigger. She used to wear her hair long. Not a chance of getting a brush through it. Now, she wears her hair short, because it’s easier to play that way.

She was small, unconventionally small. As an example, she wore the same one piece bathing suit for years. I don’t know if you remember, but as a kid those are the hardest things to squeeze into if they don’t fit right. But she just never grew. My mom called her “Sarah Dunk-a-roo”, because we swear that’s all she ever ate. Now, she’s taller than me and her snack of choice? Cucumbers and salt.

She was an explorer, running around with a smile as big as her spirit. I was older, but I envied her. She was free, didn’t censor herself one bit and people adored her. That’s a rare combination. People still adore her, but as I said she has a calmer presence now. She plays in the New Brunswick Youth Orchestra, is training with the New Brunswick Orchestra and receives lessons from one of Dalhousie’s professors. Maybe calmer isn’t the right word. How about determined, brilliant, and wise beyond her years?

She began playing the violin because my grandfather loves the instrument. I don’t know if that’s the actual reason but witnessing him as he watches her play is reason enough for me. She played, year after year at family gatherings. And year after year, she improved. Then there was one year it changed. I guess it’s when our family realized we were no longer watching a talented girl who could read music and play the violin. We were watching a musician.

She played Josh Groban’s “You raise me up” but this time she didn’t read music and she didn’t play, she performed. There wasn’t a dry eye in the room. I truly don’t believe there is anything as stirring as watching someone you love, do something they love. But that’s exactly what it was.

I used to write her letters at violin camp because she was homesick. Now I hang out with her in between her practices at Dalhousie. She gets upset when she misses a note, even just in front of us. She wants to challenge herself, and finds the people and places to do that. She took a trip to Boston with my aunt to meet the famous violinist, Itzhak Perlman. Not your typical 16 year old activity.

Perhaps she’s not the girl who runs around barefoot, with unmistakably bright colors on anymore. But I think it’s just because she’s running somewhere else.

I find the comfort of home

My right hand naturally reaches for the volume as I pull into the driveway. I reach up and smack the garage door opener.  I squeeze out of the car, overloaded with my belongings (which never seem to fit in one bag) and close the silver door behind me. I walk through the cluttered, but neat garage and open the white door into the house, “Whoooosh, creeeak, slam” it replies. I am home.

As I take my boots off and fling them into the pile of shoes, I notice there is no laundry in the mud room; probably less to do, since I no longer live here.  I drop my laundry basket down, and think, “I’ll get to it later.” 

I smell a mixture of pot roast and veggies, and freshly baked banana bread. She’s a multi-tasker, no doubt about that. She turns, with a bright smile, the kind that changes the shape of your whole face. I walk over for a hello hug. I find the comfort of home in her hugs.

I saunter into the family room and find him in his chair. Golf is on the big screen and I

realize my presence is minimal compared to the 14^th hole. I feel a nudge on the back of my legs and turn to see my big, yellow dog. Tail-wagging and excited to see me, I don’t even care that it was a delayed reaction; a hefty 100-pound Golden-Doodle asking me to play. 

I hear the familiar sounds of plates clanking and new packages being opened: hors d’oeuvres time. He’ll be here soon. I’m instructed to call ‘the others’ up. I yell down and make my way into the kitchen and dig into the hummus spread. I hear laughing and giggling coming up the basement stairs. Ah, the basement inhabitants (also known as, my brother and his girlfriend) heard my call and have come to join us. 

  

“Herrrreee!” my phone buzzes. The big, yellow dog barks and this confirms his arrival. I go to the front door and let him in. He’s mine and the newest addition to Sunday dinners. In my mind, it’s a pretty big deal to be invited to Sunday dinners; he may be new, but he’s special. 

All hands are on deck as we set the dining room table. Sounds fancy, but it really isn’t. With all of our (last-minute) help, dinner is on the table in a matter of seconds. We sit in our regular spots around the table, the same wicker-back chairs that we’ve had since I can remember. Riley finds his spot under the table. Mom declares we can eat. Dad passes around the pot roast. Alex grabs the bread basket. Cailin passes Alex the butter. Gordon reaches for the salad. I scoop up the vegetables. And the rotation begins. 

The conversation lasts longer than the dinner does. We have tea, baked goods and fruit for dessert. After dinner, we all lounge on the over sized couches and chairs. A new episode of Amazing Race. Another successful Sunday.

A legend called Granny

When my grandmother was 8 years old, she was diagnosed with osteomyelitis. Many of you may not know what this is. I’ll be honest and say that only in my older years did I come to know much of anything about this disease. Because as a child, my grandmother’s straight leg was just that, a straight leg. But it’s much more than that now

Legends can be two things, mythical-like stories or people who represent some part of history.  My grandmother represents the latter, and although you won’t read about her in any famous history books, she takes up a large chapter in the book of my family’s history.

If I was going to name the chapter, I would call it ‘Babs’. That’s her nickname. I’m not sure where it originated from, I don’t think she is either, but it fits. She’s not your typical lady. She walks the line between utterly polite and as she likes to put it, ‘bad’ but I’d say strong. Both work, but I guarantee you, she would not be the woman she is today without a little bit of punch.

Osteomyelitis is a deterioration of the bone. In 1930, there wasn’t much in the way of treating this disease. And so, in order to stop the bone from deteriorating, they fused the joints of Granny’s right leg together. As you can imagine, this limits certain activities. Bike riding, ice skating, riding roller coasters. Further than that, it makes a normal 8 year old girl stick out. For most, this would be devastating and I’m sure my Granny felt just that, especially on her worst days: devastation. However, the story doesn’t end here. There wouldn’t be a legend named after this woman if she didn’t floor us all with her capabilities.

There are many people that would take a diagnosis such as this and break down; lose their purpose. There are some who would look it in the face and battle it; not become a victim of the disease. And then there are some, who would face it with enough strength to surpass all records; cross all of the lines. Be They would be labeled a ‘survivor’. That’s my grandmother.

If you’ve never seen someone tend to a garden lying down, then you should meet my grandmother. If you’ve never seen someone swing from a tree rope with a straight leg, then you should meet my grandmother. If you’ve never seen someone learn to swim with only the use of three limbs, then you should meet my grandmother; she would amaze you.

As a person, she has defied many odds. She has taken a bad circumstance and made it disappear. As a woman, she has represented strength, fortitude and vigor; she put her whole heart into everything. As my grandmother, she has created a legend that will be told for generations to come, just like it was told to me.

Apples, raisins and peanut butter

Memories themselves are an interesting thing. How do you remember certain events and not others? Not to get too far into the psychology of it all, but usually, the most unforgettable memories are those that are emotional or even traumatic. And so, as I sat here and thought about my earliest memory, I expected to be hit with a significant event that either elicited a lot of emotion or trauma. But in fact, I thought of one that is quite pleasant. How did I know it was my earliest memory? Well, it took place at Crichton Park School in Dartmouth, where I was enrolled in pre-school. I can’t tell you the particulars; like how I got there, or how often I went, or even how old I was. I could’ve asked my parents, but I thought that would be cheating. I wanted the recount of this memory to be as authentic as possible. It’s pretty easy to be clouded with pictures, home videos and countless family stories – and so I chose to pull from exactly what I remember – my earliest memory.

The memories I have of this place are likely not from the same day, but they are collectively from the same place. I know that. So I broke it down into four categories, which I determined must have been my favourite parts about pre-school.

The classroom (s)

We had two classrooms. Depending on the activities we were doing that day, we would be in one or the other. We also had two teachers, one old, one young. Both kind. Duh, they’re pre-school teachers. The walls were mint green and covered in drawings and those Scholastic Choice posters. There was a bathroom right next to the bigger classroom, with old wooden doors.

‘Bring your stuffed animal to school’ day

Who wouldn’t remember this? I recall sitting at my desk, having my stuffed bear in the corner. She was white with a pink bow-tie. It’s funny how much comfort stuffed animals bring to children. I certainly remember a sense of security whenever mine was around. Bringing them to a sometimes-scary place like school was a brilliant opportunity; you could tell by the number of kids who brought them.

Story-time

Story-time was cute. We would all gather in a circle around one of our teachers who would read us a story. I imagine they made us sit in a circle because it’s more interactive. There was other option; you had to scoot up close to your classmates, look at them all around the circle. There was always one kid who would take his time getting to the circle. I can’t remember his name, but he was a bit of a shit disturber. It was like come on. It’s the same thing every time, you have to join us. And he did join us every time, eventually.  

Snack-time

If I was still in pre-school, this would still be my favourite part... an apple, raisins, peanut butter & crackers. I’m sure they switched it up, but this is the snack I remember. You’d just be sitting there with your grubby little hands holding onto a crayon for dear life, waiting to hear the words ‘snack time!’

I forgot to mention, my favourite pre-school outfit was a pink and blue tracksuit. That memory may be clouded by the pre-school group picture I have at home. Oops, not entirely authentic, but either way, at least I know I attended pre-school in style.  Not much has changed.

The kind of beach you explore

The dirt road to the beach isn’t so much a road anymore. The grass has grown, the trees fuller. The tractor impressions which once defined a path have vanished. But I still know where this road leads.

The beginning of the journey is marked by a rickety, rusting ‘No trespassing’ sign hanging off a chain link rope.  I wonder why it’s even there because a sign that old, speaks more to abandonment than trespassing. However, I hop over the rope and continue on my journey. I feel calm. The path is flanked by open fields. My favorite part about the walk is glancing back at the old farmhouse in the distance; my grandfather’s old homestead, our current family gathering spot.

My cousins surround me on this walk and the many family dogs run free all around us. This is their special place, too. As we walk, I notice the cranberry bushes, or lack thereof, that we used to pick until our fingers were red. You can smell mud in the air.  Mud in the country has a different smell (the animal influence). The road is full of mud puddles. Half the fun of the journey is finding the safest way to get around them. Until one of the dogs comes barging through and it doesn’t matter how clever you thought you were; you are now covered in mud splatter.

There’s a specific turn in the road, one where the water becomes visible, through an opening. I get a feeling of anticipation. We’re getting close to our beach. It’s not the kind of beach where you’re excited to set up camp for the day and run crashing into the waves. It’s the kind of beach where you roll up your pant legs and explore. Poke the dead jellyfish with stray pieces of drift wood. Find sea glass, which are majorly softened pieces of beer bottles. Pick up the odd shell and realize it’s not that pretty. Skip rocks along the water. Dig holes in the sand until you reach clay.

And if you dare…you’ll test the water. You’ll make it as far as your ankles, look at the ocean floor littered with seaweed and other extremities and change your mind. But at least you tried.

The walk home from the beach is longer than the walk there…or so it seems. You brought half the beach home in your shoes; there's no longer an anticipation. However, the walk home has an opening too; one where you can see an old farmhouse in the distance and suddenly, the walk home becomes a little sweeter.

What's in a job?

It was a brief stint but undoubtedly my most interesting place of work: a car dealership. Confined to working within a 4 by 4 radius, I was the main receptionist.  This meant, among other things, that I was the gatekeeper of sales calls; to provide some context; car salesmen don’t make money unless they sell cars. Men who don’t make money, for the most part, are not happy. So needless to say, these calls were important.

I think people have pre-conceived notions about car salesmen, and I will be honest when I say they are right about every single one of them. But on the contrary, they represent some of the most honest, hardworking people out there.

It is also worthwhile knowing that as a female, I represented a very small portion of the staff. Very small. On a staff of about 60, there were about 6 of us. We were a minority; there is no doubt about that.

It was not uncommon to be complimented on your appearance or to have conversations most workplaces would frown upon. I decided pretty quickly that as long as I wasn’t offended, I would take the whole, “If you can’t beat em’, join em’!” approach.

As I mentioned, my job was important but not hard. Tasks included media monitoring, organizing part-slips and retrieving keys for the car salesmen. On Saturdays, my biggest task was ordering lunch for the whole office; easier than it sounds. It didn’t matter where I wanted to order from because as I was once told, “The smallest person doesn’t get to choose.”

No matter what the drama (because there always was some) or the gossip (because someone was always talking) I couldn’t help but realize the ease of conversation between me and my colleagues. Some might say it was my PR personality, but I wouldn’t because I know it was their car salesman personality. Their ability to talk someone into or out of a car was mind boggling. And whether they know it or not, their ability to win me over was pretty special too.

Sometimes opportunities present themselves and you’re not sure why. This was one of them. I never envisioned working in a car dealership, and to be quite frank, I don’t ever see it happening again. However, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t better for it.  As I said, I met some of the most honest, hardworking people out there. Bill, 74, married – 30 years in the business. Terry, 45, married, two kids, ex Casino manager – 2 years in the business. Bobby Lee, 33, high school dropout – 10 years in the business. Pat H, 25, followed in his father’s footsteps – 4 years in the business. It’s human nature to judge. It would’ve been very easy to take their crude jokes and in some cases, harsh outer layer and give up. I guess I just chose not to.

Okie Dokie

“Okie-dokie?” he asked. “Okie-dokie,” I would respond every time. It’s a simple phrase, but one that resonates deeply.  Funnily enough, it’s not even the phrase that is significant. It’s the fact that it was asked every time.  Some people crave spontaneity.  I am not one of them. In fact, I am quite the opposite; I seek consistency.

 My dad had a method. If my brother or I misbehaved he would first remove us from the situation and secondly, explain what we had done wrong. “Okie-dokie,” simply put, was the question my dad would ask to know that we understood the conversation that had just taken place. Not that I was a misbehaved child, but my father and I had many of these conversations. It was perhaps, my first encounter with consistency.  

When I was 11 years old, my parents told my brother and me that we needed to have a family talk. An interesting choice of words, I immediately thought divorce…sickness…the worst. Turns out it was a little less dramatic, but my dad had lost his job. In my naivety I thought, “Phewph! He’ll just get a new one.” Easily fixable.

They say you remember emotional situations more thoroughly than others. It was a few months later, when I was sitting around the table with my family and we had a decision to make: Montreal or Toronto. Our house was dark; the only light on was the one over the kitchen table. Seinfeld was on the TV in the background, I remember looking at it through blurry eyes. We were moving to Montreal.

Trust me, I’m a very realistic person and I know there are situations far worse than the one I was in at that moment. But as a kid, I felt pretty safe. My family owned a modest house in Dartmouth, Nova Scotia (next to a park!), I went to a nice school, had a good group of friends…as far as childhoods go, I was ‘living the dream’. But as far as my 11 year-old mind went – this ‘new’ situation was very inconsistent.

Now this ‘new’ situation could’ve ruined my picture of consistency. However, it did something else for me. It showed me that in the most inconsistent of situations, you can find consistency. Everything else around me changed: new house (no park), new school, and new friends. But my family didn’t change.  

In the years to come, I would realize that it’s not where you are, but who you’re with that really matters. So that’s it. That’s what matters most to me – the people I choose to surround myself with, whoever that may be. You can look back through life and see how much has changed. Or you can look back and find all of the things that haven’t. I know that change is inevitable, but I guess, more often than not, I’m more comfortable looking at all of the things that haven’t. It may make me boring, but I’d just say it makes me consistent.