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.