To Mitch. A Birthday Tribute.

It must have been sometime in 2012 when I was walking my dogs through Cabbagetown that I happened by a guy walking his puppy. I know that we stopped to say hi because I had Tyson and wanted to start getting him socialized. Also, that's what you do in Cabbagetown. The encounter didn't last very long. Thereafter we would see that guy again but when he saw us approaching would cross to the other side of the road. Or stare straight ahead as we walked by. I was flabbergasted that anyone would not want to stop and relish in the enjoyment of an encounter with me and my dogs. I thought he was rude. He didn't even notice, he was busy training his own dog. Neither of us knew that before long we would be fast friends. 

Or that Keith and I would try to sell his house when he and Mima were on vacation.

It must be an age thing but I don't know these days how many of my friendships started. The people in my life are there, and feel like they always have been. The communication slowly improved through frequent encounters at Riverdale. Turned out the guy was actually pretty friendly. Soon we progressed from Maggie and Tyson's dads to Mitch and Lawrence. Before he knew it Keith was cooking dinner for a bunch of strangers and not long after we were brunching Sundays at the Hop. 

I have always joked loudly about not liking kids and when Mitch announced his intention on becoming a dad I threatened un-friending on Facebook. But I fell in love with his daughter. Who wouldn't?

Mitch is a solid guy. He's a good friend. He's my movie buddy. His door is always open and beer and food are always available. Chances are you would struggle to find yourself a nicer guy.

Happy Birthday dude.

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To Stephan. A Birthday Tribute.

I've always traveled, both for work and pleasure. It must have been around 2004 when Keith told me to check out a friend of his' new guest house in Cape Town. I was used to hotels, having only stayed at a guest house once before and so with trepidation I booked myself in on my next monthly visit.

18 on Crox, named for its address at 18 Croxteth Rd, was newly opened and soon became my home away from home. I don't remember actually meeting Stephan and his partner Andrew for the first time, I am sure that we behaved with absolute professional courtesy. For about a minute. And I never stayed anywhere else again when I visited Cape Town.

Before long we were friends. I looked forward to every trip. My room was always ready for me, licorice and sour gums at the side of the bed, berry juice in the fridge. I would leave for work in the morning with ready-made protein shake in hand following a pot of fresh coffee. I would return from work and hang out in Stephan and Andrew's bedroom, with their dog Misha, usually eating something but always drinking. They worked incredibly hard to make the most beautiful, stylish guest house that was loved by anyone that stayed there.

Keith and I were so incredibly honoured to be a part of their marriage ceremony in 2006. We have all since move on; Keith and I to Canada and Stephan and Andrew to Spain. It's been a while since the four of us hung out together, but we are always in contact. Stephan is a beautiful man, who always makes me laugh, calls me affectionate names and sends me inappropriate messages.

I miss you, I miss the easy conversation, lying on your bed gossiping, talking for hours and moaning about our weight.

Happy Birthday my friend. May this year bring you only joy, happiness and health. And hopefully in the very near future a chance for a proper in-person hug.  I love you.
 
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I not line, I lynn.

I woke up on a cold February morning. It was 5 months since I officially landed here as an emigrant, 4 months since Keith and the dogs had arrived and less than 3 months since moving in to our house in Cabbagetown.

I woke up to about 18 missed calls and as many text messages. I listened to my brother in law telling me to call urgently. I looked at the phone and as I dialled his number I mentally prepared myself to hear the news that my mother had died. It was an obvious conclusion to me. 

He answered, I asked what was wrong. He told my that my sister had passed away. I asked again, he repeated what he said the first time. I remember asking what had happened but my mind blanked out and I just put the phone down. This was not possible. I collapsed to the floor just as Keith came downstairs.

Friends of mine had the same reaction when they heard the news. They all thought it was my mother. Nobody ever expected the news to be of my sister. I was at the airport within hours, flew to Montreal, back to Toronto, to London, missed a flight to Paris. The weather was not on my side and I landed in Johannesburg hours before the funeral. I had cried the entire way there. Not one person had asked me if I was OK. 

I lost my baby sister 7 years ago today. 

We were born less than two years apart and as kids we behaved as any siblings do. We played together and we fought. I performed many surgeries on her dolls and she threw my toy cars away. We shared some friends and not others. We grew older but never apart. When I left for University our relationship matured. Everyone always thought I was the clever one but she was smart. She graduated top of her class in Criminology and Political Science at an Afrikaans University and was studying patent law when she died. She loved journalism and wrote for various papers and magazines. When she was dating her future husband she would stay at my house in Johanneburg and I remember her coming home one night to find a house full of students, having partaken in substances not to be mentioned in writing, following an evening of ritual and tradition. She just sat there and watched us. She took it all in. Then she wrote about it. Her words were haunting, insightful and beautiful. They will be mine, and mine only for the rest of my life. 

Carolyn had a spectacular imagination and sense of humour. As a kid she had her imaginary friends Geena and Peena. Maybe the weren't that imaginary. As an adult she had Dubrovski Urinovski 94-triple777-48. She would launch into her Russian accent and accuse us of all kinds of sabotage, and declar war on her adversaries. She would leave threatening voicemails. I wish I had saved them. She created an alter ego to deal with her mother-in-law that had us all in hysterics.  She would remain firmly routed in each character, only letting Carolyn back in on her own terms. She sang, she laughed, she spoke at the top of her voice, she was always present. She was so funny. 

My sister was the fat kid. She struggled with eating problems and weight gain. She struggled with all kinds of medical conditions that accompany obesity. Despite that she found love, she made friends, she excelled at her career. But a long life was never meant for her to be. Her body could not handle the abuse. 

We spoke every single day. She was the ying to my yang. We grew up alone and together. I still hear her voice. 

I miss her every single day. 

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Don't talk to me

My mother had a tumultuous relationship with her own mother. I am not sure I know the true details of this relationship as most of what my mom says has to be taken with a heap full of salt.  Truth is, my mother has little relationship with anyone she knows.

For some reason my grandmother didn't like my father. I think she thought he wasn't good enough, but frankly it turns out that she and my mother are one and the same, and so by this one can infer that my grandmother wasn't that good at relationships either. Needless to say there was a long period when neither my mother nor father spoke to my grandmother.

My parents did not want their issues to spill over to any relationship my sister and I had with my grandparents and so we would be dropped off at their place to play, and picked up at a mutually convenient time. My parents never came in, my grandparents never went out. It was a veritable Chinese wall.

The relationship between my mother and grandmother improved only slightly after my father died but suddenly, and without any clear reason, they reconciled. And my grandmother died six months later. My mother, always looking for a reason to be depressed, found solace in the guilt that she and her mom had not come together sooner. She mourned the lost time and the things unsaid.

I have a friend who has a grandmother that I believe she is close to, who won't speak to her. She's elderly and dying. My friend exposed a family member for things that should not have been done. But she exposed the golden child, and by so doing she alienated herself from her family at a time when she would want to be a part of them the most. I don't know the whole story, or the history. and I may have my facts a little mixed but the essence is true. I've told her to storm her grandmother's hospital room because this is not only about her. Because she needs to be able to say goodbye. Because when she's gone it won't matter that she didn't want to speak to her. Because blood is thicker.

I have a friend who left the man she was married to because he was not a very nice man at all. She tried very hard to put up with him, with his selfishness, abusive mouth and his nasty mother. I say this confidently because I witnessed each of these behaviors myself. She left him because she wanted to be free. And happy. It took time and a great deal of courage. And when she refused to accept ultimatums and money to forgive and forget, he took everything that he could. He took her belongings. He took her friends. And he took their children. Nobody is perfect. There are always three sides to a story. But there is never a valid excuse to poison children against a parent. My friend is one of the strongest people I know. And she longs for the kids that will have nothing to do with her. Kids that are too young to understand, too innocent to be told that the things their father did - the other side. And when I lash out at him she tells me to let it go. Because she has no hatred, because she is only open to love. Because she will learn from this. And because she will be there when her children need her.

Keith didn't speak to his father for many years. He wasn't there when his dad died. It was his choice not to speak to him and he had his reasons. I know what they are and I understand them. This is the opposite side of the coin.

Is it different when we choose, as adults, to sever a relationship? Will we still regret it, when that decision is made on our behalf, when we are too young to understand for ourselves? Can we make up for lost time?

People have come into and moved out of my life. There are people that I was so close to we spoke every day, that I have forgotten about. Some drifted away, some were severed. None of these were blood but each was my choice. A few years ago I wrote about the family bond. Maybe blood shouldn't dictate or mandate any form of relationship. I don't know.

But what I do know, is that the choice should never be made on your behalf.


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A Guest Post by my friend Jennifer

“That doesn’t count as a blog post,” I tell him.

“Pardon?” He asks.

“That thing you posted last night.  That “happily ever after” nonsense.  It doesn’t count as a blog post.”

“Well then why don’t you write me a guest blog post?” He challenges me.

And so I am.

* * * * *

1995

University College

University of Toronto

Downtown Toronto, Ontario

Canada

I am in my third year of my undergraduate degree.  This thing called “email” is brand spanking new.  There is no internet en masse as we know it today.  There is no Facebook, no Twitter, no Instagram.  There are cell phones, but they are the size of a lunch box and prohibitively expensive.  When I listen to music on my commute to and from school, it is using a yellow Sony Walkman accompanied by a bag full of cassette tapes.  When I leave home, there is no getting in contact with me unless I used a pay phone (remember those?!?) to call home and check the messages on my answering machine. 

This is the state of life, this is the state of technology, or lack thereof, when I am “introduced” to Lawrence Reiter.

As with all of my best friendships, I do not remember exactly when or how our introduction came about.  I do recall that a South African friend from high school had a cousin who lived in South Africa and Lawrence was “friends” with her cousin.  Kind of like how Ernie and Bert are “friends” on Sesame Street….  But I digress….

I had just received my first email account in 1995.  Very few people had email in 1995.  I received my email account through school and somehow or other I was given Lawrence’s email account information (or was he given mine) and we started corresponding, me from Toronto and him in South Africa.  There was the huge time difference to contend with and responses most certainly were not instantaneous (How could they be?  There was the torturous process of dial up internet to deal with….) but somehow from this new technology a beautiful courtship was born.

Or so I believed. 

These were the days before Match.com and Plenty of Fish.  The most “advanced” technology in dating at the time was in the form of “tele-personals” where you’d dial a phone number, listen to recorded messages and decide if you wanted to leave a message in return.  <Shudder>  These were the good old days where you actually MET people, IN PERSON, and decided based on that IN PERSON meeting whether you wanted to date them. 

So I was quite enchanted when my friend gave me Lawrence’s contact information (or did she give him mine?) and, suffering from the delusional belief that we were being set up to live happily ever after, we exchanged emails.  Being young and naïve, I didn’t find it creepy that he was constantly in a laboratory at all hours of the day and night checking in on his “cultures”. We got to know each other.  As much as you can know someone you have never met, never spoken with, who lives at the opposite end of the world, in a completely different time zone and who is not, as it turns out, completely honest about the minor details of his life.  Like the fact that he prefers cock.  But again I digress…..

What I wouldn’t do to have those emails today.

Eventually, the day came when, miracle of miracles, my beloved Lawrence, my future Jewish doctor husband was coming to Toronto to meet me!  It would be love at first site, we would consummate our intentions and I would finally, finally, live my happily ever after.

You can all stop laughing now.

* * * * *

It is 2008.

Downtown Toronto, Ontario

Canada.

Winter.

Snowstorm.

My second marriage.

My first child.

Lawrence is in Toronto. 

He is moving here.

We are driving around with my infant daughter in the Volvo Lawrence had just licked scouting out different parts of the city for he and Keith and their fur babies to live.

A few months later, the big move takes place.

And we all find our happily ever after.  

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To Tracy. A Birthday Tribute.

Yesterday I wrote about not having anything to say, and today I not only had an idea for a post, but it also happens to be a birthday and that requires a tribute!

I don't know how long I've known Tracy for. I know that my dad was alive when we used to visit them in Johannesburg so it's way more than 30 years. My mother claimed that Tracy's dad was a cousin but I called him Uncle Farnol. Tracy's mom knew my dad's first wife Pearl who I previously wrote about. They were best friends. We go back a very long way.

For a few years we lived in a small town about two hours north of Johannesburg. When we visited we would often stay at Tracy's house. We loved it there! Tracy and her sister used to spend time with us, play games, and if I remember correctly we ate Nutella which we couldn't get in Pietersburg.

We drifted in and out of each other's lives. Tracy and her sister were older than us and I am sure that at some point we became those annoying young kids who weren't much fun to be around. I do remember once looking at her sister and boyfriend and thinking "wow, they sure are cool". Later on during University I remember hanging out with her (pic below at Uncle Farnol's birthday) and then life happened, and I emigrated and we lost touch. A few years ago we connected on Facebook; I think it was through a mutual friend. It was a surprise to see her name pop up and one of us messaged the other. We have since spent time catching up via email/message.

Happy Birthday Tracy. We may not be of blood, but you are family. I love you and I wish you the healthiest, happiest year ahead!

(P.S. Yes Mandy - if you are reading this, that's your waistcoat. Yes I stole it).

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Becoming weary

I chatted to a friend today who is a writer. A real one. Nicki gets paid to write and has been published in the Huffington Post and New York Times, among others. I love her honest, beautiful writing and she inspired me to write more. She told me today that she has writers block and that it's pretty frustrating. I told her that I felt like a bit of a fraud saying the same thing but it's the truth. I have nothing to say.

I've said this before, when I first started blogging way back in 2008, that I would only write when I had something relevant to say. And I did. And sometimes months would pass. When I did write people would tell me to write more. Setting myself this challenge for the year was easy and I've pretty much stuck to it for 60 days, even when I was on vacation. But there is only so much I can say about my childhood, or my mother, or how I feel about butternut (I love it) and babies. I've been keeping a list of things I should write about and generally I am able to put something interesting together. But lately I've been struggling, and so I resorted to publishing some of my old high school poetry or rambling on about something that was crap (according to Keith). I like it. I like that what I say will be preserved in cyberspace for a long time. I like that things I wrote 20 years ago, some of which was published in a school yearbook, is remembered. But when you do it every single day, it becomes routine. And that defeats the reason why I set myself this challenge in the first place. 

I worry about letting myself down. I don't want to let you down. I've received such wonderful feedback to some of the things Ive written about. But even those have waned, because you can only take so much and life is busy for us all. Nicki said to me "Sometimes you want to take a break, give people something to want. Something to look forward to". 

This process in itself is a lesson for me. This is about setting goals, and sticking to promises, and learning to adjust as you go, and setting expectations, and meeting them, and not meeting them. It's about holding on, and letting go. This simple task is about so much more than I ever thought. And yet it's also not.

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