Dobra Den here in my time zone or Dobra Utro to those of you that are across the sea from me, or geez by the time I finish writing this, Dobra Vechi, in either case Privet. Good Afternoon, Good Morning, Good Evening, and Hello.
Here’s my first addition of my Russian adventures as far for those that haven’t heard anything, or those that have just got the little updates here and there.
Most of you can only imagine what going into a new country feels like, those that have travelled and those of you that I have served with in KAF may have a small idea into how I was feeling before my big move, being somewhere new, learning a new way of things, being surrounded with the same people day in and day out, and getting accustomed to new foods. This outside of KAF, which in my mind being in the little bubble we’re in, is my first time in a new country.
I’ve been here three weeks and in short I LOVE it. My first day here was rather neutral. I met a lot of people who were wondering who I was, having arrived here a month and a half after my husband and kids. Yes I do exist, I am real. By day two I was in total culture shock, it was my first day in the real world of Russian shopping and getting to know the city. Thankfully it was short lived and I was on the way back to home. Home or “the bubble” as we call it is a little gated community which houses Canadians and Americans posted to their respective embassies and to millionaire Russian families. Our community is gated and stood by guards 24/7. The kids here have all the freedom to run around and play without getting out, as children here have to be accompanied by an adult in order to gain access to the real world. We have a small store here with every day needs, feminine supplies, bread, milk, eggs, and of course sweets and even a small supply of fruits and vegetables, there is a small pond and waterfall the children can drive motorized boats in, a community room to host parties, and two parks, one of which with a small gazebo and community fire pit. Garbage pickup is daily Monday through Friday, and there is a shuttle that drives you to and picks you up from the METRO stations, as well as a Monday through Friday service to the smaller mall to do groceries for a couple of hours. Outside the gate there is a walking trail, attached to it are the locks, where the boats come in, and another trail and the river nestled in the forest.
My first experience grocery shopping. The best way to describe it was an indoor farmers market, fruit, vegetables, deli meat and cheese, meat and breads lined the small indoor square. Most days though I just go to the regular grocery store. There are pastries, cookies and sweets of every kind here, and it has become our nightly routine to enjoy a cup of tea and something to go along with it. I feel so European, next week I will have to start running again so that all the carbs don’t go straight to my newly KAF skinny ass. The Russians also have a thing with pickling things. They make some great coleslaws, pickled cabbage, carrots, tomatoes, cucumbers, and exotic things that I’m not even sure of what they are. Crepes are also huge here, and are used for cakes, layers of whip cream and crepes stacked upon each other and of course stuffed with strawberries, raspberries, bananas and chocolate, or apple and cinnamon, and anything else they please to stuff between them. There is a new experience just in trying the food here. My favourite as of yet, the coleslaw, which normally I am not a big fan of, and the pickled cucumbers, done so just to add a little flavour of dill, but not done so they are like a pickle. I guess that doesn’t quite make sense, and maybe that is something else I will have to get a picture of just so that you gain a better idea and the raspberry crepes served with tea at the little cafe in the mall. There are a lot of small markets around and more so there are a lot of small stands around. Little carts dedicated to selling one of either, fruits and vegetables, bread and pasties, cigarettes, magazines, ice cream, or flowers. We have learned to not even look at the price of the food here, some is more expensive, some is slightly cheaper, and some are completely outrageous. Strawberries here go for about $25-$30 for a small basket of about 15 berries. We basically just throw whatever we want in our cart and pay for whatever the register or the calculator says at the end. You can get basically all the same things here as in Canada with the exception of a few things. Robbie just found 100% pure maple syrup here, it’s not Canadian, but it’s something to put on our Sunday pancakes. The milk is taking some getting used to, for those that have tasted the KAF milk, it is quite similar, stored out of the fridge and has a shelf life that is forever, regular milk can be bought here at the local store in our compound, but it has its price. The one bad thing about the food though, the sodium content in everything you eat. There is so much salt, even in the meat, I swear they must feed the cows salt cubes. The currency here is called rubbles, for every hundred rubbles it is equivalent to five Canadian dollars.
The city is huge; the subway line in itself is gigantic. There are 11 lines in total with more currently under construction. Here is a link to a map of the line to give you an idea of what I’m talking about. http://www.wtr.ru/moscow/eng/metro/metro.html I have so far only travelled on the green and red line. The two lines needed to go the Embassy. This task is relatively easy with the basic knowledge of your Cyrillic alphabet, or at the very least a paper with the Cyrillic alphabet on it. The metro stations here are like none you’ve ever seen. I have yet to take many pictures of them, but I will make sure I do as soon as things slow down here and I am able to just go out and travel the metro for the sole purpose and taking some pictures. They are ornately designed in marble, chandeliers’, and decorative tiles. Usually when you go out you’re in a rush to get where you’re going to and you need to leave ample time to get where you’re going. In a city of 17 million people, more than half the population in Canada, traffic is horrible and the 11 lanes are nowhere near enough to get people where they’re going quickly, a fifteen minute drive to the Embassy usually a good hour and half minimum in the morning. Most of your day is soaked up in driving and getting to where you need to.
The city of Moscow is beautiful, I guess is some ways it’s beauty in the eyes of the beholder, but for those that appreciate differences in social and economic living conditions, it’s unique and wonderful. Moscow is one of the oldest cities, and it shows in the architecture throughout the city and the statues that depict Roman times. There are parks everywhere you turn, old and weathered with more statues, and clean. There is a lack of garbage almost everywhere you go here, the city keeps its streets clean and there is no lack of workers here or jobs to make sure that it stays that way.
There are malls here the same as any big city, although fashion here has its price. A pair of jeans will go no cheaper than a hundred dollars, and an eyebrow tweeze the other day cost me 600 rubbles, or $30 Canadian. Fashion here is a little behind, think 80’s. I’m unsure if it’s the economic state of Russia or if it’s what they consider the in thing. Skinny jeans, even on men, mullets, and hooker boots, no matter where you look it’s women and hooker boots. Paired with skirts, dresses jogging pants, and that’s no joke, and jeans, there are hooker boots of every kind. Fat heals, and skinny heals, short heal and wow how can you even walk in that heal? (and some of them can’t). There is no shortage boots here that is for sure. There are stores here that cater to the hooker boot. I even saw an 11 year old walking in 2 inch high heeled shoes the other day.
No matter where you go there are security guards, the grocery store, the stores within the mall and walking around the mall, and even subway stations. Moscow is desperately trying to clean up the city and decrease crime. The country although still a little corrupt, is trying to do away with the tags associated with Stalin and Lenin. Although still high on the list of what Russia is, most people would rather forget that they existed and the tragedies and horrors associated with their name.
Halloween is somewhat celebrated here, but mostly costumes are sold in stores for the purpose of the non-Russian families that live here. We celebrated Halloween just over a week ago, kids go door to door in the compound, and there was a haunted house built by a couple of the Canadian families here (Ron provided the electrical portion of it). We also had a tent set up with a buffet of or potluck of items and tons of booze. Halloween was great, it was just like home. Christmas stuff is also coming out now, just like back home, you can never escape the holidays. There is always something to do on the weekends, and just about everything is geared towards the families so that children aren’t left out and you aren’t left scrambling for a babysitter, although the options for nannies here are phenomenal, with the amount of millionaires around us, a large number of them choose to pass the parenting or dog walking to someone else.
My Russian is sllllllllllowly coming along. I know a few key phrases, but am still working on my Cyrillic and counting, I know some numbers but can do with knowing a few more. I take some time every day, more some days to practice and study. I have some websites I go to, and a couple cds as well that I learn off of. Mostly it’s just about being repetitive and going out and doing it. Unfortunately with being in Toronto during the month of September I missed the Russian lessons which started, so I’m hoping that they will run again after the November break. Ron says that even without the lessons and him taking them, that I am still better. LOL
And so that is the world I have lived the last three weeks.
Although not ready, I get a small break from Russian this week as we fly four and a half hours to the city of Rome for our first vacation. The kids who have a break from school every month to two months tops have their first one this week into mid next week. We’ll spend our first night in Rome, go to Pompeii, and then head back to Rome for four more days before heading back home on the sixth day.
I should also mention quickly that we made our first trip to Red Square last week as well. We did not go inside the Basilica as it was getting cold, it is something we will probably do first thing in the spring or summer.
Will update soon.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Friday, October 24, 2008
Growing Old, or just maturing...
As we get older...
At the tender age of thirty one I am learning that age, gray hair, and maturity are not our only defining factors in growing older. Every day we grow and every day there is something else that makes us a different person than the one we were yesterday. My tastes have changed, the way I do things have changed and my personality has changed.
My age definition has come from simple things like makeup and high heels. Never wanting to wear makeup until well into my twenties, it is now a must whenever I am dressed up, it is not necessary for me to wear it to the point where I feel naked without it, or when I am going to the gym etc...I do not need to wear it every time I step outside my front door, but I do feel more complete with it, at my best and more like a girl, no longer the tomboy who pulls her hair into a pony tail. Granny panties no longer do the trick. I no longer live by the rule if it can’t be seen then it doesn’t matter. For me looking and feeling like a girl includes pretty panties and bras that match. I no longer don chunky thick heels and flats in fear of falling on my face, instead I wear dainty heels that sometimes make me come close to rolling my ankle, but give me an added height that makes my husband cringe when next to him, and accentuate my long legs. It seems that only a couple years ago heels would be completely out of the question for my knowledge on how to walk in them was incomplete, however suddenly it seems that it is something automatic, and known. I now enjoy a nice pair of heels paired with a dress or skirt when appropriate.
I have grown a more mature taste for things I use to think we’re not for me.
Maybe my palate has come to appreciate these tastes or maybe it is out of necessity that it has come to accept some of them. I consider myself a tea or hot chocolate drinker, but it is now, after needing the boast occasionally that I have partaken in numerous cups of coffee to help cope with and stay awake for my jobs after countless nights of no sleep due to insomnia. One of my favourite things to do when at home is to sit with a cold glass of white wine, it is only the last little while that I can enjoy a subtle glass of red, a flavour I have never been able to enjoy due to how arid and tart I found it.
My social skills have developed as well. I state rather freely that I am a rather timid person, but those that know me and even those that don’t know me that well now laugh at the statement. I admit I have come a long way in recent years. I open up more than my young twenties and can easily converse in social situations.
My music tastes have also grown to include more than the typical today’s top 40’s. I no longer enjoy most rap and hip hop, in fact it quite annoys me, I can only stand so much trance and house music, instead I have grown to enjoy country and classical along with my favourites.
It’s funny I always thought I would be the cool mom, that I would always like the same things my kids did and that I would be able to tolerate all the annoying little things that annoy most parents. I thought becoming a mom at such a young age would give me an advantage over other parents with me being so much closer in age to my own kids. I didn’t want to be like my mom who now at the age of 58 is afraid to touch a computer or anything else that is considered modern technology.
By far, I don’t feel old and as if I can still keep up with what’s hot and what’s popular out there. I am indeed growing older, still young at heart, but things are changing.
At the tender age of thirty one I am learning that age, gray hair, and maturity are not our only defining factors in growing older. Every day we grow and every day there is something else that makes us a different person than the one we were yesterday. My tastes have changed, the way I do things have changed and my personality has changed.
My age definition has come from simple things like makeup and high heels. Never wanting to wear makeup until well into my twenties, it is now a must whenever I am dressed up, it is not necessary for me to wear it to the point where I feel naked without it, or when I am going to the gym etc...I do not need to wear it every time I step outside my front door, but I do feel more complete with it, at my best and more like a girl, no longer the tomboy who pulls her hair into a pony tail. Granny panties no longer do the trick. I no longer live by the rule if it can’t be seen then it doesn’t matter. For me looking and feeling like a girl includes pretty panties and bras that match. I no longer don chunky thick heels and flats in fear of falling on my face, instead I wear dainty heels that sometimes make me come close to rolling my ankle, but give me an added height that makes my husband cringe when next to him, and accentuate my long legs. It seems that only a couple years ago heels would be completely out of the question for my knowledge on how to walk in them was incomplete, however suddenly it seems that it is something automatic, and known. I now enjoy a nice pair of heels paired with a dress or skirt when appropriate.
I have grown a more mature taste for things I use to think we’re not for me.
Maybe my palate has come to appreciate these tastes or maybe it is out of necessity that it has come to accept some of them. I consider myself a tea or hot chocolate drinker, but it is now, after needing the boast occasionally that I have partaken in numerous cups of coffee to help cope with and stay awake for my jobs after countless nights of no sleep due to insomnia. One of my favourite things to do when at home is to sit with a cold glass of white wine, it is only the last little while that I can enjoy a subtle glass of red, a flavour I have never been able to enjoy due to how arid and tart I found it.
My social skills have developed as well. I state rather freely that I am a rather timid person, but those that know me and even those that don’t know me that well now laugh at the statement. I admit I have come a long way in recent years. I open up more than my young twenties and can easily converse in social situations.
My music tastes have also grown to include more than the typical today’s top 40’s. I no longer enjoy most rap and hip hop, in fact it quite annoys me, I can only stand so much trance and house music, instead I have grown to enjoy country and classical along with my favourites.
It’s funny I always thought I would be the cool mom, that I would always like the same things my kids did and that I would be able to tolerate all the annoying little things that annoy most parents. I thought becoming a mom at such a young age would give me an advantage over other parents with me being so much closer in age to my own kids. I didn’t want to be like my mom who now at the age of 58 is afraid to touch a computer or anything else that is considered modern technology.
By far, I don’t feel old and as if I can still keep up with what’s hot and what’s popular out there. I am indeed growing older, still young at heart, but things are changing.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
A New Perspective on Senses
During my six months I have smelt the ungodly aroma of feces through the air, nearly every night at the same time. I have watched storms come in and out of camp, followed by some of the most amazing sunsets and sunrises.
I have listened to the tears of grown men as they say their last goodbye to a fallen friend.
I have felt the dust mixed with sweat within every crease of my body.
And I have tasted fear sitting in a bunker as rockets whiz overhead, and landed with an all too familiar boom.
Six months away from home can do a lot for ones soul, six months in a war torn country and do a lot for one spirit as well, and watching men and women come in from the field after days of fighting, and watching as the caskets are being carried for their final trip home can do a lot for your heart.
Six months away from home, in a war torn country can make you appreciate life and all it has to offer, and it can make you appreciate those that fill your life, and surround you on a daily basis.
I have learned to slow down in life and take time to smell the roses.
I have learned to sit patiently and watch the wave’s crash upon the rocks on the beach.
I have learned to listen to the birds’ sing their daily praises.
I have learned to throw off my sandals and feel the sand beneath my feet and feel the gentle breeze race across my face.
I have learned what the taste of freedom really is, and the price we’ve paid to fly our flag up highly without prejudice or discrimination.
Friday, September 12, 2008
September 11, 2008
Today is September 11, 2008. It is a day most of us remember where we were seven years ago and think of how our lives have changed since the fateful day when tragedy struck not only New York City and the Twin Terrors, but people from all over the world. It was estimated that people from 90 nationalities lost their lives in the attacks of 9/11, Canada losing an estimated 24 people.
Where was I:
The day of the attacks I was on the computer, in our home in Edmonton. I remember logging on and briefly seeing a tidbit on msn news about a plane “crashing into one of the towers”. I passed it off, thinking it was just another freak accident. It was ‘t until my husband came rushing into the house asking for my help to pack his kit and telling me to turn on the news that it was apparent that it wasn’t just another plane crash. After helping him get ready and hoping that he would not be deployed to help with the efforts my friend anxiously called me. Chaos was breaking out all over. Downtown Toronto was being evacuated and she was in a frenzy to get home from work. People were all over, the transit was overloaded, but couldn’t move because of people on the streets.
I was having just a regular day though, I was doing nothing significant.
How has life changed since:
Since 9/11, 36 NATO countries have been deployed to Afghanistan in an effort to conquer “the war on terrorism” and bring peace and stability to the region. In 2005 my husband was deployed as part of the Edmonton contingent, those six months brought the reality of war home to me when my friend’s husband was severely injured and returned home. In 2006, one of my husband’s best friends lost his life in a fight with the Taliban. Finally In 2007, I wanted to do my part in going above and beyond in Serving my Troops and providing Support in ways more than placing a yellow ribbon on my car or wearing a small pin upon my lapel. In 2008, I was deployed to Kandahar Air Field as a Retail Attendant to provide Morale and Support for the 2500 Canadian soldiers that were stationed there, as well as the other nationalities. It was at the end of my tour, only one week prior to me leaving that I lost yet another friend.
Although 9/11 happened seven years ago, the effects it has on us are constant. I have since lost two friends to Afghanistan, seen the effects of war up close and personnel and yet have grown and been reminded to slow down in life, not to be in such a rush, smell the roses, and enjoy the little things life has to offer.
Where was I:
The day of the attacks I was on the computer, in our home in Edmonton. I remember logging on and briefly seeing a tidbit on msn news about a plane “crashing into one of the towers”. I passed it off, thinking it was just another freak accident. It was ‘t until my husband came rushing into the house asking for my help to pack his kit and telling me to turn on the news that it was apparent that it wasn’t just another plane crash. After helping him get ready and hoping that he would not be deployed to help with the efforts my friend anxiously called me. Chaos was breaking out all over. Downtown Toronto was being evacuated and she was in a frenzy to get home from work. People were all over, the transit was overloaded, but couldn’t move because of people on the streets.
I was having just a regular day though, I was doing nothing significant.
How has life changed since:
Since 9/11, 36 NATO countries have been deployed to Afghanistan in an effort to conquer “the war on terrorism” and bring peace and stability to the region. In 2005 my husband was deployed as part of the Edmonton contingent, those six months brought the reality of war home to me when my friend’s husband was severely injured and returned home. In 2006, one of my husband’s best friends lost his life in a fight with the Taliban. Finally In 2007, I wanted to do my part in going above and beyond in Serving my Troops and providing Support in ways more than placing a yellow ribbon on my car or wearing a small pin upon my lapel. In 2008, I was deployed to Kandahar Air Field as a Retail Attendant to provide Morale and Support for the 2500 Canadian soldiers that were stationed there, as well as the other nationalities. It was at the end of my tour, only one week prior to me leaving that I lost yet another friend.
Although 9/11 happened seven years ago, the effects it has on us are constant. I have since lost two friends to Afghanistan, seen the effects of war up close and personnel and yet have grown and been reminded to slow down in life, not to be in such a rush, smell the roses, and enjoy the little things life has to offer.
In Need of a Morale Boost
My whole time in Kandahar it was hard for me to feel emotion. My whole job depended on me to be happy, and boost morale. There was no time for me to feel lonely, sad, angry, or helpless. Although I was a retail attendant, my position required me to do more than just stocking shelves, ring things through the cash or the other listed requirements. I was there for morale and support to all the soldiers and civilians that were housed or came into KAF. I was good at my job; make that great at my job. I along with a couple other true handfuls could always it come up with ideas that would go above and beyond the regular daily moral boost.
Most times it was easy to be happy, put on my smile or a fake front no wonder what was going on in KAF or at home. I even managed to do it during the hardest times in KAF when it was the most important for us to bring morale to a new high. Ramp ceremonies were no doubt the toughest part of being overseas. Missing my family was manageable through letters, pictures, emails and phone calls, but ramp ceremonies meant that we lost someone that we were there to serve; it meant that someone who was there to serve their nation, our nation, had been killed. They didn’t just die, but rather had been taken from us. We knew that they would want us to go on, to remember them yes, not mourn for them, but continue on with the mission, continue to serve and do our job going above and beyond what our expectations and requirements were. I always came through in this, even after Shawn’s ramp, I was able to pull my composure together and open the store with a smile on my face.
In doing my job and putting my feelings aside it was sometimes hard to feel what I truly wanted in that moment. I could no longer cry when I felt hurt or sad and I became cold and emotionless in moments that would normally make me shed tears. I was in essence a wall at times. I became scared that when I went home that this wall would become permanent, or at the least very hard to break.
A week after I got home I got a tattoo to commemorate the soldiers and friends we knew that died or had been killed overseas, and also to commemorate the soldiers that had been killed during the six months I was overseas. The thought to me was emotive, and I had anticipated to weep the moment I seen the finished product, instead though I was happy, if even that. I realized in this moment that my wall had yet to be chipped away, I was fundamentally in that bubble I hear so much about.
After two weeks of being home, it is a hard-hitting day. It has now come to my sudden attention that I am not on vacation; I am not going back to Afghanistan to continue the job I did with such attention to detail and with such passion.
It is also September 11, the reason we are in Afghanistan right now fighting the “war on terrorism”. It is this war that has killed so many of our young troops, and it is today that our Prime Minister has announced that he is promising to “not extend the mission in the Afghan region past 2011”. It is to me and many soldiers a job that is unfinished in the Afghan region. The 97 soldiers that have been killed since the war started will have died in vain if our work goes unfinished, and the territory in Afghanistan cannot thrive before it is time to on its own.
Nearly a month after Shawn was killed in Afghanistan, and two weeks after my return home, I have mustered up the courage to try and get a hold of Shawn’s wife, my friend Lisa. I’ve been putting this off for lack of words to say to her. I fear that even when she does talk to me, she won’t want to because her husband and I came from the same place and even though had very different jobs; I am here, back in Canada, safe and sound whereas he is not.
It is today that I wish I could curl up in my husband’s arms, lie on his chest and cry. For today along with everything that is going on inside my head and inside my heart, I am missing my family, especially my kids, and it is today that I have found my emotions again. It is today that I am in need of a morale boost.
Most times it was easy to be happy, put on my smile or a fake front no wonder what was going on in KAF or at home. I even managed to do it during the hardest times in KAF when it was the most important for us to bring morale to a new high. Ramp ceremonies were no doubt the toughest part of being overseas. Missing my family was manageable through letters, pictures, emails and phone calls, but ramp ceremonies meant that we lost someone that we were there to serve; it meant that someone who was there to serve their nation, our nation, had been killed. They didn’t just die, but rather had been taken from us. We knew that they would want us to go on, to remember them yes, not mourn for them, but continue on with the mission, continue to serve and do our job going above and beyond what our expectations and requirements were. I always came through in this, even after Shawn’s ramp, I was able to pull my composure together and open the store with a smile on my face.
In doing my job and putting my feelings aside it was sometimes hard to feel what I truly wanted in that moment. I could no longer cry when I felt hurt or sad and I became cold and emotionless in moments that would normally make me shed tears. I was in essence a wall at times. I became scared that when I went home that this wall would become permanent, or at the least very hard to break.
A week after I got home I got a tattoo to commemorate the soldiers and friends we knew that died or had been killed overseas, and also to commemorate the soldiers that had been killed during the six months I was overseas. The thought to me was emotive, and I had anticipated to weep the moment I seen the finished product, instead though I was happy, if even that. I realized in this moment that my wall had yet to be chipped away, I was fundamentally in that bubble I hear so much about.
After two weeks of being home, it is a hard-hitting day. It has now come to my sudden attention that I am not on vacation; I am not going back to Afghanistan to continue the job I did with such attention to detail and with such passion.
It is also September 11, the reason we are in Afghanistan right now fighting the “war on terrorism”. It is this war that has killed so many of our young troops, and it is today that our Prime Minister has announced that he is promising to “not extend the mission in the Afghan region past 2011”. It is to me and many soldiers a job that is unfinished in the Afghan region. The 97 soldiers that have been killed since the war started will have died in vain if our work goes unfinished, and the territory in Afghanistan cannot thrive before it is time to on its own.
Nearly a month after Shawn was killed in Afghanistan, and two weeks after my return home, I have mustered up the courage to try and get a hold of Shawn’s wife, my friend Lisa. I’ve been putting this off for lack of words to say to her. I fear that even when she does talk to me, she won’t want to because her husband and I came from the same place and even though had very different jobs; I am here, back in Canada, safe and sound whereas he is not.
It is today that I wish I could curl up in my husband’s arms, lie on his chest and cry. For today along with everything that is going on inside my head and inside my heart, I am missing my family, especially my kids, and it is today that I have found my emotions again. It is today that I am in need of a morale boost.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Grandma's House
My grandma’s house is nestled on a small quiet street off the main intersection of Woodbine and Gerrard. By day there are streetcars and vehicles moving by the second, none of which you could recognize. Instead the sound of crickets during the day, birds and children fill the small tiny street. It hasn’t changed much in years, there are trees as tall as those that would be in any forest, the houses that surround are quant, made of brick, and snug next to each other. It seems though that the yards, once filled with lush green grass has now mimicked my grandmother’s own colourful yard with an array of flowers that fill more than half the properties.
Grandma’s house inside hasn’t changed much either. There’s no longer carpet, but the wood floors are still warm throughout. There are little figurines, statues, and trinkets throughout the house, all on top little dollies and hankies. Little dust collectors and nothing but junk to me, but to her, something else, although I’m not quite sure I’ll ever understand. Old pictures of family, her grandkids; I included, and great grandkids can be seen throughout the kitchen in various mismatching frames from the dollar store. There are fake flowers in various spots through the house, oddly enough, none are dusty.
Upon my return to Canada and my visitation at my grandmother’s house she quickly offered me her bed. It was much convincing that I took it, more like harsh looks she can give when she wants her way or is displeased with you. In my younger years I use to sleep beside her in a queen size bed, myself always next to the wall, and on the wall, a soft blanket with deer. It was always comforting to me as I lay there trying to fall asleep with the screeches of raccoons and the old noises of the furnace running my hand across the blanket, petting the deer. As I lay here now I do the same, the racoons no longer make the awful noises in the walls, the chimney long being fixed, and the old furnace has long been replaced. The old blanket still lays there and still gives me comfort though. Something I find myself in need of in my current state.
Up until I turned around fifteen or sixteen my grandma would drag me to church every Sunday. Something I never enjoyed. There were always religious relics throughout the house, and it seems as the same as the figurines and other dainty ornaments, the amount of religious statues, pictures, and books have also increased in amount. There was a time I thought it freaky, as if God was always watching what I was doing, and judging my every move, now with everything even though I still by any means hold no particular religious values, these treasures of hers bring me comfort.
These things and the comfort foods, the favourites of which she cooks for me, her need to care for, take care of, and do for everyone. Amidst her dark and tough exterior sometimes, she is often soft. She is from an older harder generation from a hard time. All these things and her house are after all what make my grandma who she is. They are what makes my grandma her and for that I love her.
Grandma’s house inside hasn’t changed much either. There’s no longer carpet, but the wood floors are still warm throughout. There are little figurines, statues, and trinkets throughout the house, all on top little dollies and hankies. Little dust collectors and nothing but junk to me, but to her, something else, although I’m not quite sure I’ll ever understand. Old pictures of family, her grandkids; I included, and great grandkids can be seen throughout the kitchen in various mismatching frames from the dollar store. There are fake flowers in various spots through the house, oddly enough, none are dusty.
Upon my return to Canada and my visitation at my grandmother’s house she quickly offered me her bed. It was much convincing that I took it, more like harsh looks she can give when she wants her way or is displeased with you. In my younger years I use to sleep beside her in a queen size bed, myself always next to the wall, and on the wall, a soft blanket with deer. It was always comforting to me as I lay there trying to fall asleep with the screeches of raccoons and the old noises of the furnace running my hand across the blanket, petting the deer. As I lay here now I do the same, the racoons no longer make the awful noises in the walls, the chimney long being fixed, and the old furnace has long been replaced. The old blanket still lays there and still gives me comfort though. Something I find myself in need of in my current state.
Up until I turned around fifteen or sixteen my grandma would drag me to church every Sunday. Something I never enjoyed. There were always religious relics throughout the house, and it seems as the same as the figurines and other dainty ornaments, the amount of religious statues, pictures, and books have also increased in amount. There was a time I thought it freaky, as if God was always watching what I was doing, and judging my every move, now with everything even though I still by any means hold no particular religious values, these treasures of hers bring me comfort.
These things and the comfort foods, the favourites of which she cooks for me, her need to care for, take care of, and do for everyone. Amidst her dark and tough exterior sometimes, she is often soft. She is from an older harder generation from a hard time. All these things and her house are after all what make my grandma who she is. They are what makes my grandma her and for that I love her.
Friday, September 5, 2008
A Celebration of Both Life and Death
September 4 - It is the day after a celebration of sorts. Today marks the day after my now thirteen year old son’s birthday. It also marks the second year our dear friend Shane’s death. I say death lightly as he was actually killed two years ago while serving in Afghanistan. Yesterday also marked the day that three more brave soldiers were killed overseas.
This year I am unable to be home with my son for his birthday. I am instead here in Toronto patiently awaiting my visa so that I can join him, my other son, and my husband in Russia. So instead of dwelling on the fact that there will be no birthday party for me to join in, a good friend of mine and I decided to take a trip downtown and lay flowers on a memorial site dedicated to all those who have died in either war or peacekeeping for Canada.
The site was not as we expected. Either we had high expectations, or we had the wrong spot. We had thought at the very least and from what we had read that the “War on Terrorism” memorial would have the names of those that had died for the cause etched into the wall. Instead there was a wall, beautifully etched artwork from past wars, but nothing commemorating Afghanistan and the efforts that are going on there. All over the park there were sculptures as high as the eye could see, one for firefighters, one for policemen, both with names of the fallen. To date we have lost 96 Canadian soldiers to the war in Afghanistan, less than the number of firefighters names etched into numerous marble walls, so certainly there would have been more than enough room on the huge wall that was displaying the depictions of WWI and WWII. Maybe it was something they planned for the future.
It is obvious that my friend and I did not need to put an etching to remember those we lost. Instead we placed our flowers, sat back, and remembered. For those we knew, and for those we didn’t. I am almost glad that no name was there to be read, for that would have meant reading something that was already etched in my head.
Yesterday was a celebration of Robbie’s 13th birthday, him becoming a teenager, him growing up and becoming a young man. It was a celebration of his life thus far and all that is to come.
Yesterday was a celebration of Chris, Gilles, Shane, Shawn, the other thirteen soldiers who never made it home during my six months stay in Afghanistan, and those three young soldiers that coincidently lost their lives yesterday. Yesterday was a celebration of their lives, their deaths, and those they left behind.
Today, I say CHIMO once again, for CHIMO in greeting or in goodbye, means FRIEND.
This year I am unable to be home with my son for his birthday. I am instead here in Toronto patiently awaiting my visa so that I can join him, my other son, and my husband in Russia. So instead of dwelling on the fact that there will be no birthday party for me to join in, a good friend of mine and I decided to take a trip downtown and lay flowers on a memorial site dedicated to all those who have died in either war or peacekeeping for Canada.
The site was not as we expected. Either we had high expectations, or we had the wrong spot. We had thought at the very least and from what we had read that the “War on Terrorism” memorial would have the names of those that had died for the cause etched into the wall. Instead there was a wall, beautifully etched artwork from past wars, but nothing commemorating Afghanistan and the efforts that are going on there. All over the park there were sculptures as high as the eye could see, one for firefighters, one for policemen, both with names of the fallen. To date we have lost 96 Canadian soldiers to the war in Afghanistan, less than the number of firefighters names etched into numerous marble walls, so certainly there would have been more than enough room on the huge wall that was displaying the depictions of WWI and WWII. Maybe it was something they planned for the future.
It is obvious that my friend and I did not need to put an etching to remember those we lost. Instead we placed our flowers, sat back, and remembered. For those we knew, and for those we didn’t. I am almost glad that no name was there to be read, for that would have meant reading something that was already etched in my head.
Yesterday was a celebration of Robbie’s 13th birthday, him becoming a teenager, him growing up and becoming a young man. It was a celebration of his life thus far and all that is to come.
Yesterday was a celebration of Chris, Gilles, Shane, Shawn, the other thirteen soldiers who never made it home during my six months stay in Afghanistan, and those three young soldiers that coincidently lost their lives yesterday. Yesterday was a celebration of their lives, their deaths, and those they left behind.
Today, I say CHIMO once again, for CHIMO in greeting or in goodbye, means FRIEND.
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