Rose's Cantina

I saw an ad on CNN a few weeks ago in which a woman gushed about being related to George Washington. She found this out on Ancestry.com whilst compiling her family tree. I had no illusions that I was related to Sir John A. or anybody else famous. But I decided to join Ancestry.ca just to clear up a few family mysteries. Growing up in St. Catharines, Ontario, I was surrounded by ancient relatives of various shapes and sizes who would arrive at dinner, or a funeral, and fill my head with all kinds of weird and wonderful stories. Unfortunately, they all died before I reached an age when I was capable of documenting the stories, or more importantly, verifying them. So I thought now, during the age of the Pandemic, would be a good time to grow a family tree. Boy did I get my money's worth. I had always thought that I was a WASP (White Anglo-Saxon Protestant) through and through. There were Crowns, MacPhersons, Bretts and Simpsons; t here was no inter-marriage that I knew. So I was...

I approached the white clapboard house and rang the doorbell, hoping to speak with the people who now live in the house where I grew up in the middle of a peach orchard. There was nobody home, so I didn't wander far. The place was smaller than I remembered, the house didn't look much different except the new owners had replaced the sparkly tarpaper my Grandfather had used to cover the exterior.  Next door, my uncle's tiny bungalow had been raised and in its place was a bigger house where someone else was building a family. Our football stadium-sized backyard, where my brothers played their sports, was now littered with toys and swings and a garish trampoline. In spite of these changes, much of small family farm was still intact, the outbuildings, the barn and the garage still looked exactly the same. The cherry trees were still there, the ones I scraped my knees  on trying to climb to the top. My scent was everywhere on this place, and the memories came floodin...

At four in the morning, the alarm goes off and I hear the announcer on CBC Radio drone on as usual,  something about the orange clown south of the border.  I slap the radio like it's some sort of pesky mosquito, in hopes of getting a few more seconds of peace.  My little Aussie Shepherd jumps to attention.  Pearl is four months old, and she's good at it. She reminds me of Anna waking up her sister in the opening scene of Frozen .  The sun is awake. And I'm awake. It's time to play! It's Saturday, and I have to drive my husband to work in downtown Ottawa. Later, I have a date with my son and my granddaughter to celebrate Father's Day one day early. Time is a wastin'.  I jump out of bed before Pearl pees on my shoes, then sit outside with my tea while Scott gets showered. Four in the morning is a fascinating time on my street which is almost always busy. It's a major artery during the day, brimming with buses, firetrucks, ...

Yesterday, I was sitting in my chair with Kenny on my lap, and she was fiddling with her soother, the one with the little froggy attached. She was worrying the legs, as I bounced her up and down. She was having a terrible day, drooling everywhere, really crabby thanks to those dastardly teeth coming in. Scott, meanwhile, was unpacking the fake tree, the one we got free of charge about four years ago when the neighbor put it out in the trash. It is decorated with donated ornaments and lights which have replaced the ones that my son Nick accidentally threw out.. Man, was I mad at him that Christmas. We simply didn't know what to do. We had no money that year. And that's when we spotted the tree, out there in the snow, still in its original box. Free to good home, the neighbor had scrawled. I mentioned on Facebook that all of our ornaments were gone, and a few kind people dropped off boxes of them, or donated their old ones. I was truly touched. You peopl...

    Vern, Ivan, Lloyd and Vera: My mother's family  When I was a little farm kid, I had a playmate who stood about five foot tall and ran me around the yard in my little red wagon which he had hooked up to our Golden Retriever Penny. His name Vern and he was my best friend, a guy my mother could always count on to watch me, pick me up when I fell and scraped a knee, or put a cold compress on my leg when I got stung by one of Gramp's bees, which was pretty often. Vern loved to sit on the step of the house. He'd play an horrific version of one country song or another on his guitar or his fiddle. Sometimes, he accompanied himself on the harmonica or the Jew's harp. Twang-a-lang, Twang-a-lang . If I close my eyes, I can still hear him catterwalling. Vern liked to wail or yodel which is why Granny always made him sit outside. He was a terrible picker and a worse singer, but oh, my, how he loved his music. Vern wasn't one of the neighbor ki...

If I were granted any wish, I'll tell you what I'd do,... I'd wish my kids were small again, for just a month or two. To hear their squeals of laughter, to watch them while they play. And when they ask me to join in, I'd NOT say "Not today." To hug again their chubby frame, to kiss away their tears, and cherish childhood innocences that's washed away the years. Then when it's story time again, I'd stay a little longer, to answer questions, sing the songs, so memories would be stronger. But time is callous, wishes, myth, yet God in all his wisdom, has given me another chance before I join his kingdom. The face may not be just the same, the name is changed, 'tis true, but yet the smile that radiates, reminds me so of you. God must have known that Grandma would need a chance or two. For many little happy things she hadn't time to do. So God gave love to Grandmas to equal that before, that, in effect embraces those little liv...

I love Gordon J. Blackstone like a son. But he's now become Public Enemy Number One in my household. My 11-year-old black pug seems to be possessed by a malevolent spirit. He spins and spits, he's developed this way of talking in tongues which sounds suspiciously like throat singing. He's driving me absolutely nuts. The trouble with Gordie is that he hates the baby and everything associated with the baby. Little Skye is the sweetest little human but not to Gord. To Gord, Skye is an uninvited interloper, a taker of space to which he believes he's entitled. Ming will sleep soundly next to me. Hannah could care less. Gord chatters endlessly while I'm burping her or jostling her. Sometimes, he shits himself. And don't get him started on the playpen or the car seat. To Gord, baby paraphernalia are accessories after the fact. Even when Skye is finally taken down to her parents, Gordie will yip for a good hour and twirl in front of the baby seat, like...

It's been nearly a year since I joined The Athletic Club in Ottawa. I can't believe that I've stuck it out. I never stick with anything; I'm weak, what can I say? In thinking back, I realize how much I hated going to the gym in the past. Scott and I joined several gyms, but couldn't really connect with the experience. I felt old, embarrassed, silly and scared. Often, we would quit a gym over any excuse; mainly we quit because Scott had reinjured many of his joints worn down by high school football and carrying around a camera for 30 years. I was more than happy to bail. Not my fault, right? For some of us, maybe we just have to come to exercise at our own time, in our own way. When I started, I could only do five minutes on the rowing machine. Now, I pound that same machine for 30 minutes in addition to doing 30 minutes on the elliptical. Exercise has changed my life and my attitude. For years, I had trouble walking on sore feet and had tendonitis in...

It's hard to believe that Little Skye has been with us a month already. She's growing in leaps and bounds, sucking happily on her bottle, and looking around now. She's already a big fan of American Idol and goes to sleep immediately to the sounds of Shania Twain. Oh, how evil I am. While her dad is head-banging in the basement, his little daughter will be pleading for a hurtin' tune. Can't, can't wait to see that! I'm getting Nick back for 26 years of Linkin Park. Meanwhile, Gordon J. Blackstone continues to poop himself and twirl around the living room like a  little medicine man trying to ward away the spirit of the Eddie Bauer playstation. Even when Skye isn't around, Gordie the pug gets it into his head that her spirit is still inhabiting the evil grey structure by the balcony door. I'm going to have to consult Cesar Milan on how to end the pug-baby stand off. We might just have to wait until Little Skye becomes Big Skye and she ...

I woke up this morning feeling pukey and out of sorts. It felt like morning sickness. Ah ha, but we know that can't happen. Yesterday, I started a new regime and I'm paying for it dearly today. I finally succumbed to the siren call of the blood pressure medication that Dr. Ben was holding in his hand. I fought him tooth and nail on taking medication. Like a Lincoln lawyer, I made my case. I work out an hour a day. I've scaled back on the alcohol. I'm eating better than Dr. Oz. But numbers don't lie. For the past week I've been testing my blood pressure and it's high -- 155 over 100 high. Dangerous high. "Well, heart and stroke runs in the family," I conceded as I watched Dr. Ben's eyes twinkle. "But I don't smoke!" He shrugged and gave me a blister pack full of tiny pills which I'm finding even harder to swallow than the horse pills they call multivitamins. I didn't feel too bad yesterday, but toda...

Truth be told, not everybody in this household is happy with the arrival of The Little Peanut. Gordon J. Blackstone is positively apoplectic. He whines and he barks, he spins backwards like a New Zealand toilet. If I'm feeding Skye, Gordie will nose in, lick her feet, then bounce back on his back paws, startling himself. When I get up with her, Gordie runs around my feet. My elderly pug may think she's a cat; I'm not sure. I fear dementia. If he thinks she's a cat, I'm concerned. Gordie chased the last cat we had into the furnace room and she wouldn't come out. We had to find her a new pugless home. Can't do that with a baby. Gordie's going to have to learn that there's a new sheriff in town and she wears Pampers. I'm hoping he'll adjust. Yesterday, he was spinning so frantically, he let several tiny turds fly out of his butt hole like it was a machine gun. Rat-a-tat-tat.

The Little Peanut is two weeks old today. It's hard to believe how two weeks can change a person's life. This week, we celebrated the opening of her eyes, wide with curiosity. Made me think of the French "regard me"; there's no better explanation for it. Everytime I look at Sky, she's giving me the once over, all serious, like a celebrity you've caught up with and asked for an autograph. "And you are?" This week Sky had a mammoth, gucky poop, a kind of anniversary poo full of all the good stuff left over in her intestines from her womb experience. It was green and flowed all over her father, the intended victim of the slime. Nick took it all in good humor, telling the story over and over, as new parents do. I remember Stef had one of those in the early days of infancy. I'd left Mr. Big and my mother in charge of him and I'd gone for a well deserved nap. Suddenly, I heard screaming, then whooping. Rushing the stairs, two at ...

Having a baby around is a game changer, especially when it comes to the adult parent and child relationship. My own mother, Vera, and I had a complicated time together. Hugs and kisses were rare. It was more spit and spite. If it were compared to a dance, I would say our relationship was more the Riverdance than the waltz. We spent a good part of our lives jumping up and down or circling one another. Vera and I developed a strange kind of intimacy in my teenage years that made her feel better but made me feel uncomfortable. I blame it on the fact she was a fairly heavy drinker, a lifer with a six pack a day habit. As a result, she was prone to over-sharing. Your father, he really could be a bastard. I never wanted you; I threw myself down the stairs when I was pregnant. I never wanted children, but I just couldn't figure out how NOT to get pregnant. Did you know I had shock treatments? That kind of thing. Honestly, some of it bordered on child abuse. But ou...

I was very disappointed to hear that Shyla had a much different birthing experience than I did. There was no shaving of the pubic area, and the modern nurse had never heard of my favorite birthing ritual -- the enema. Where has the fun gone from childbirth? Shyla got drugs -- and lots of them. I got squat, even when I asked for them. By the time Nick was born 21 hours after my water broke, I was ready to chew through the stirrups. Also, there was no pressure on Shyla to breast feed. She tried it a couple of times, hated it, so the nurses said: "Meh" and handed her a bottle of formula. There was no argument whatsoever. No stern looks. No nurse grabbing her tit and putting it in Skylar's mouth. No "it's better for the baby, so deal with it, bitch". Also Shyla got juice and toast and water. I got fricking ice chips. I thought this was Ontario, home of the horrible hospital experience. I actually complained to one of the nurses today abo...

On a beautiful Ottawa day, when the air was crisp and the sun was shining, you came into our world to make us whole again. For just a few hours, you made us forget the woes of the world. You made us believe. In the potential that is within all of us. In the possibility that the world could be different. In our own capacity to love. We will save the polar bears for you. We will consume less gas. We will recycle. We will do better in our quest to love you and one another. We welcome you, beautiful Skylar. We love you. You make us want to be better people. Love Granny Rose and Papa Scott. Auntie Em, Uncle Stef and Uncle Jeff. Thanks for just being you. :)

Sometime in the next few days, there will be a bellowing from tiny lungs at the Ottawa Hospital, heralding the arrival of our newest family member. Like her father before her, little Wheels seems in no hurry to take her first breath. Yesterday was her formal due date but there are no signs of imminent expulsion. There's talk of induction. We shall see. Meh, says, Wheels. Why the hurry? It's friggin' cold outside. Are we ready for her? Yes. And no. The nursery has been imagined with loving care by Mama Shyla who started nesting just days after she tested positive for new life. There are so many Winnie the Pooh accessories, it's starting to look like the Hundred Acre Woods down there. I hope Wheels isn't afraid of bears and donkeys. There are boxes of diapers, wipes and other supplies piled up in the hallway, Nick's way of forward planning. If there's a snowstorm or tsunami, he's set. Wheels has enough baby togs to outfit entire African ...

Nearly every woman I know has either had a grandchild in the last few years or is going to be a granny in 2012. We all vary widely in our ages. One friend is in her mid-60s and is finally getting a little powdery plaything. Most of us are professional women in our mid to late 50s with children who range in age from 25 to 30. We are the generation who chose to wait a while before we had kids. I myself was just turning 30 when I had Nick. I admit, I had no clue what I was doing. The children of my friends, the new generation of parents, could not be more different. Some are incredibly responsible young persons who have completed their masters, landed high paying jobs and bought houses paying cash while others are still trying to decide whether to buy diapers or spend money on the newest video game offering. To me, it doesn't matter the pedigree of the parents, as long as they do right by their new children. I've learned the hard way that life can change on a dime, but...