Inheritance

 This is a story of two Dads.  

When I was in my late 20s, I moved away from my hometown to go to college.  I was older than all the other students - they referred to us as "mature students" - and we all knew what that meant.  It was another blow to my already rocky self-confidence - fresh off a devastating split from my fiancee, and alone in a new city and school, where everyone seemed younger and prettier. 

I had exercised and dieted and was the fittest I'd ever been.  My hair was long and passable, my eyes the same blue as Dad's.  What caused me the most grief was another inheritance from Dad.  Something that no diet or exercise or skin product could reduce.  The Madsen Jaw.  The angular, solid jaw that made my Dad and his brothers (and their children and my brothers) ruggedly handsome (think Paul Newman, or Crocodile Dundee) but did not, in my opinion, sit as prettily on my face.  It wasn't all my imagination either; once a co-worker, a gorgeous young girl named Natalie, nicknamed me Jay Leno.  Not a celebrity comparison to flatter a gal.  

But I'd made peace with it - or thought I had - until a dentist I consulted for a wisdom tooth extraction asked me if I'd ever considered a jaw reduction.  A what?  That was a possibility for me, a waitress working her way through college?  I thought appearance altering surgery was for the rich and famous.  No, he advised, I might be eligible for provincial health coverage surgery.  I had never had any surgery - in fact I was meeting with him to discuss having my wisdom teeth extracted without sedation (I was terrified of sedation), but I found myself entertaining the idea.  What sealed the deal was when he opined, "You'd be a really pretty girl, if you had your jaw reduced."  OHHHH.  There it was.  All my years of secret self-loathing, confirmed out loud by a professional.  I made an appointment with the colleague he recommended.  

But as the appointment date approached, I found myself torn.  Did I really want to alter my face, to impress society's beauty ideals?  To impress an ex-boyfriend, make him see what he was missing?  What about my sense of humour?  My loyalty?  My work ethic?  Most of all - who would I be, if I altered myself?  Everyone around home who met me, immediately said, "I knew you were Bill Madsen's daughter.  You have your Dad's smile."  If I changed my face, I wouldn't belong to anyone.  

The day of the appointment, I sat in the chair, went through the procedure where the clay-like mold makes a model of my (Dad's) smile, answered all the specialist's questions:  Did my jaw ever cause me pain? No.  Make loud clicking noises?  No.  Ever lock temporarily, or make eating difficult?  No.  There was a pause, and I could see he wondered why I was considering the surgery.  I blurted out, embarrassed, that the other dentist said I'd be a really pretty girl if I had my jaw reduced.  He nodded, and after a beat said, "Well, you're a pretty girl now."  I smiled and nodded but didn't say anything, because I was blinking back tears.  

I mentioned this was a story of two Dads.  As evidence that this really is a 'small world after all', that dentist is the Dad of the woman I'm fortunate to call my boss, the owner of the farm where I now work.  

I didn't get the jaw reduction.  My Dad died 6 months ago.  Going through all the old photos of his gigantic grin, I'm so grateful to Dr. Matthews for preserving the greatest inheritance I received from my Dad.  I am a Madsen, and I have the jaw to prove it.  

(photo of me and Dad, around the time this story took place)

216 Cups of Tea

April 25, 2024

It's been 216 cups of tea, give or take a mug or two, since my Dad died.  

216 cups of tea since I drove the 7 hours to his house in January, to go through his things, close his accounts, hire a lawyer and a realtor, clean out his house and make friends with the feral cat he'd adopted.  That poor cat still hasn't forgiven me for winning him over with tuna and laser light games, only to be grabbed and stuffed into a carrier (and then into Dad's car, with bald tires and a snow storm) for an 11 hour drive to get to his new home with my brother.  Well?  Dad would never have forgiven me for leaving him behind - he was so proud of winning that cat's trust.  The cat loves his new home, with his two step-brothers (Dad's two chihuahuas), fields to roam, and a woodstove when he comes home.

216 cups of tea, in the new box of tea, the last box of tea Dad ever bought.  My brother asked if I wanted it.  Just looking at that box broke my heart.  It's funny the things that make you cry.  Like picturing your Dad picking up the big box of tea, along with the boxes of chocolates he told me he bought for 'the girls at the bank, and the doctor's office'.  A few days later I walked through his grocery store, followed his ghost down the aisles as he picked out tangerines, sausages, crescent rolls, rotisserie chicken for his little dogs.  Tea. 

I brought it home, packed in with all the other little memories and things stuffed into his little car.  I put it in my own cupboard, knocked sideways by the thought that those bags would diminish, that one day, the last tea Dad ever bought would be gone. 

My whole life, tea has been a constant in my life with Dad.  Whenever you stayed with him, the mornings started with "would you like a cup of tea?"  If it was after 10:00am, he'd offer you a rye whiskey and ginger ale, but earlier hours called for tea. 

Growing up on the farm, Grampa always had a pot of tea on the woodstove - steeping all day, so that when you poured a mug, it was as dark as strong coffee. There was always honey or brown sugar for in it.  We went without a lot of things at the farm, 'luxuries' like white sugar (or white bread) but there was always tea.  When we were little, Dad even had special ones like "SleepyTime Tea" - I found a box of it at the store recently, and 50 years later, the same sleepy bear with nightcap, nightshirt and slippers is still on the label.   Grampa had little white mugs hanging under the cupboard by tiny cup hooks.  Mugs so tiny, I always found it funny as a little kid to watch my Dad and uncles wrap their big hands around them, the tiny handles useless.  Somehow, I ended up with one of those mugs - the only keepsake from that old life - since most of the dwellings down that long laneway have been lost to arson. 

My Dad's house is sold now.  It's far enough away that I will never make the trip to drive by it - never check to see if the hostas he split to fill in the entranceway flowerbed flourished.  I knew when I backed out of his driveway with his loaded car in January that I would never be back.  He always talked about returning home, to the Island - our childhood farm land where most of his family's remains have been scattered.  We'd brainstorm about how he'd manage that:  renovate an old school bus, build a smaller version of his log cabin lost to fire,  purchase a tiny home and fit it completely off-grid, now that the alternative energy movement has made his original style of living so much more achievable, more affordable.   Since that was how Grampa lived until his 90s, I thought we had another 20 years of Dad.  Impossible to believe he's just a memory now.  I drank the last tea he ever bought, in Grampa's tiny white mug. 

Losing an Old Dog (Scheduling Grief)

My husband came in from the barn, took one look at my puffy red eyes and stated sympathetically, "You've been looking at pictures again." 

I nod.  

I've lost my girl to congestive heart failure. My 165 pounds of pure adoration, my beautiful Great Dane doll, Bernadette, who was such a cheerleader for me that whenever I used the washroom, she would lie right outside the door, and thump her tail enthusiastically against the floor when she heard the toilet flush:  YAY MOM, GOOD GIRL!!  I KNEW YOU COULD DO IT!!

At the ripe old age (for a giant breed) of 9 years, 2 months and 5 days, we said good-bye.  She lived longer than my Frank (9 years, 3 weeks) and Sully (9 years, 1 month and 2 days), making our time together the longest I have ever lived with anyone in my adult life - including roommates, boyfriends, husbands.  No wonder losing her has gutted me; to date she is my most successful relationship.

Coming home - formerly my Favourite Thing To Do - is now the hardest part of my day. Vinny and I often sit in the truck, contemplating the empty house - no Bernie in the front picture window, no Bernie bowling us over at the front door, no Bernie snoring in the bedroom down the hall because her formerly keen senses have dimmed and we sometimes sneak up on her.  The sadness is paralyzing, it makes it difficult to breathe.

Which is why I schedule my grief, my breakdowns, my crying jags.  If I know that at a certain time, I'm allowed to hide in my bed under my duvet with lots of pillows, looking at photos of Bernadette as a puppy, Bernie playing with Sully, Bernie and Vinny on her last walk, and crying my heart out - then I can go about my daily responsibilities and not fall apart.  There is no avoiding this heartbreak, or going around it, but if I can schedule it, I can function.  

I am not saying that it still doesn't sucker punch me occasionally.  When the barn owner's stately Boxer, Cash, pushes his blocky head into my chest when I kneel to give him scratches, I bury my face in his neck and cry.  When I walk through the grocery store and the smell of rotisserie chicken reminds me of her last meal, I bite the inside of my cheek and leave without the things I came for.   The hazards are everywhere: opening the pantry door and seeing a stack of sardine cans bought just for her causes a physical pain, like getting punched in the gut.  For days, I couldn't cut myself a piece of cheese, because no matter how quietly you tried to do that, she could hear it anywhere in the house and rouse herself for her share.  The absence of her shuffling walk has ruined cheese for me.

The "Cheese, please" face  

She was kindness in the shape of a dog.  I had absolute faith in her gentleness, and her good nature.  Well, except for that one time that a turkey hunter, fully dressed in camouflage and hauling a bunch of decoys over his shoulder, surprised us on our walk in our field.  He stood frozen while she approached him low to the ground and growling, sounding more like a bear than a dog.  "Is she friendly?" He asked nervously.  I shrugged.  "I honestly don't know, we've never been in a spot like this."  After completing a circle around him and hearing my congenial tone, she decided there was no threat, and bounced back to me with her tail wagging and tongue lolling.  

She never, ever played with me.  Not the way dogs often will - tug of war, playful wrestling.  If I tried, she would look slightly alarmed, give up whatever toy she had, sit and study me with worried eyes.  But Sullivan was fair game.  She would hunt him, stalking him in full view, moving slowly and stealthily closer and closer, never hurrying or taking her eyes off him.  He would stand, becoming ever more nervous until he would finally break under pressure and bolt - and she would run him down (and usually over).  Almost a foot shorter than Sully, she still outweighed him by 10 pounds, and would hit him like a linebacker.  Sometimes in the hay field, the only evidence I'd see of her prey would be his four long spindly legs, waving in the air above the high grass.

Wherever she was in the house, she'd come wagging her tail when she heard me playing "Like My Dog" - a song about how the singer wishes his girlfriend loved him like his dog does:   

"I want you to love me like my dog does, baby, when I come home want you to just go crazy" - Billy Currington   

She knew that was Our Song, and that for the entire 2:54 of play time, she had my full and undivided attention (even if she had to endure my singing while getting smooched on).

She loved treats, but wouldn't push her way onto your plate.  She'd stand beside your chair, looking straight ahead - not at you, not at your food.  But if you didn't notice her and reward her self-control, she'd take a sideways step towards you, very tiny, very discreet, still looking ahead, never at you.  This tactic never failed to reap rewards.  She was also my shadow the moment I began grating cheese for a meal.  She knew she'd get the end piece, thanks to my fear of grating my fingers, but the closer I got to the end, the closer she'd edge to me, worried that I had forgotten our deal.  Sometimes her nose would end up touching my elbow as her concern grew.  Silly old dog.  

She owned the same babies (stuffed toys) her whole life.  She just carried them around, never ripping them or playing roughly with them.  The only danger they faced was being forgotten outside - visitors would often bring a rain-soaked baby in the house, and Bernie would take it back with thanks. But when the new terror Vinny arrived, she gave them all up without a peep.  Big hearted Bernadette.

Her politeness bordered on self-harm.  She would stand, in the heat of August or the bitter cold of February, outside the patio door but never bark or scratch at the door.  The risk rose greatly when Sully passed away in March; he was the spokesperson of their group of two, and wouldn't hesitate to demand service. When I'd notice her and run to let her in, exclaiming "Bernie!  Why didn't you say something?" She'd come in with the air of, "Oh, I didn't want to be a bother."  

She had some close calls.  Once she darted across the road in front of a big white delivery truck.  Even while I was screaming for her, another part of my mind was already having the conversation with my husband about Bernie being hit in the road and how we needed to bury her.  She tucked her tail all the way up under her chin, hind legs past her ears, and somehow made it across the road.  The truck was at least 100 feet past our house before he was able to slow down -shaken as badly as I was.  It didn't appear to faze her at the time, but from that day on whenever we were in the car and met any large white vehicle, she'd tremble all over.  Passing transports on the highway was a suicide mission - if they were white, you'd end up steering around 165 pounds of quivering dog in your lap.  She didn't enjoy car rides, because she was convinced murderers were everywhere, and she had to be on high alert.

Last Christmas we had a horrible freezing rainstorm.  Sullivan was already looking very much like a senior dog, picking his way carefully out of the house.  Bernadette was her usual balls-to-the-wall self, and blew out the door, promptly wiping out.  For the next month, she seemed to lose a lot of strength in her hind end, and although the vet prescribed pain medication and walks as physical therapy, she never fully recovered that WAHOO! vibe of hers.  For the first time, she didn't look invincible.  For the first time, I really understood she would leave me someday.  Little did I know that before the next Christmas, both her and Sully would be gone.  Unpacking our Christmas decorations this year means another crying jag, when I see their stockings.  

She loved walks on the farm.  She would stand in the middle of a 70 acre field, and just raise her nose into the wind, ears flapping.  She had the soul of a poet; you could almost hear her thinking: "I'm going to miss this all so much!"  Bernadette was the embodiment of being present in the moment and enjoying the world around her.

I know many things as facts:  She had a wonderful life.  She loved me and I loved her.  She knew that.  She had the best last week of her life, with walks in the woods, cheese, chicken, treats, belly rubs, and kisses.  She did not suffer.  I'm grateful for the extra months her medications bought us. Her heart condition would cause fluid build up in her lungs, effectively drowning her, and sometimes she struggled to breathe.  It was the kindest thing to do, to let her go out on a good day, with dignity and without suffering. I know all that. 

But what I wouldn't give to kiss her face again, cooing her name "Bernie, Bernie, Bern..." while rubbing her ears.  To smell the pads of her feet.  To trace the whirly spot on her bum, where all her hair grew to a point, or outline the asterisk shaped shading on the side of her coat. To giggle at her dream running, that would shake the whole bed.  To hear her come down the hall again, the way she did every single morning as soon as my husband got up, to join me for another hour in bed.   What I wouldn't give to hear that sound again.

When somebody loved me

Everything was beautiful

Every hour spent together

Lives within my heart

When she loved me

                                                               - Sarah McLachlan

Slow Down

Saturday morning strawberry picking.  A gorgeous sunny morning with a good breeze to keep the bugs away and keep the berry pickers cool.  I was loving the sun and the smell of the berries, and trying not to worry how I’d stand up from my berry-picking crouch, when I heard a family of four in the neighbouring row.  Young parents, little boy maybe three years old, little girl no older than five.   A sweet sight, you’d think.  Until the Dad huffs and puffs about picking ONLY berries that are ALL red, and getting them in the basket.  Until the Mom frets that they’re not concentrating, and keeps demanding that they stand still for cell phone pictures, barking “stop touching your clothes after you’ve touched the berries!”  (for the record, I'd wiped my fingers on my pants a few times by then, and had cow manure on my crocs).  Made me think they were more interested in the Facebook photo-op:  "Look at our perfect family outing this morning!" 

The little girl skipped up the row a few times, finding berries she thought were amazing, and would come back:  “Look at THIS one!  Lookit, Daddy!”  No response from the dad, who was too busy to exclaim over her find.  Finally he looked up and said sharply to his little daughter, “YOU’RE the one who was so excited to come here.  So get busy filling the basket.”  This wasn’t  after an eternity of corralling misbehaving youngsters.  They had only been there maybe two minutes.  Broke my heart a little.  

And made my heart so freaking glad to have been raised with adults who loved to dawdle, who lived in berry-stained, dog hair-covered clothes, who loved to sing and laugh while they worked.  If my five-year-old self had skipped up to Uncle Mike and shoved a fat berry under his nose, he would have said “That is the most fan-fucking-tastic strawberry I have EVER seen, IN MY LIFE!”  and then he would have talked about berry farmers, and fertilizer, and the best way to protect the crops, and wouldn’t have cared if the basket ever got filled. 

My family has always been hard-working.  They’ve also been workers who laugh, and talk, and sing while they’re working.  We all have demands, obligations and responsibilities – not enough time, and too much to do.  But my grandmother raised nine kids and still made life fun:  once, my five-year-old cousin was ‘helping’ gather eggs in a pail, and because she was so little, the pail banged against her legs as she walked.  “Careful!” her mother scolded, “you’re cracking all those eggs!”  She just smiled up at her with a sunny grin and said, “Grammy doesn’t mind.”  Talk about a Lifetime Achievement Award in one little sentence:  Grammy doesn’t mind.  Because Grammy knows what’s important is not hurting a little kid’s feelings, or making her think a handful of eggs is more important than her grand-daughter having a good time helping out.

I did have to keep my head tucked down to hide my grin as I left with my full basket, when I heard the mom exclaim to the toddler, “Wait – are you EATING every berry I give you to put in the basket?  WAIT.  WHAT ARE YOU DOING?  Are you smooshing every single berry I give you instead of putting them in the basket??  That’s it.  You don’t get to help anymore.”  His nonplussed chuckle made my day.

Let 'em help.  Let 'em get dirty.  Life is short, and childhood?  A blink of an eye.

Boy, You're Gonna Carry That Weight A Long Time...

Sitting in the driveway at the Island.  It's not until you actually step out of the car, that you really understand that it's gone.  Even driving down the lane way, you expect to hear the dogs barking and smell the wood stove, you start the conversations in your head that you know will begin when you step out of the car and open the heavy wooden door.  "Hey, ya Billy bastard!  Where've you been?  Listen to what this guy thinks.  What do you know about alien abduction?  D'ya bring me a bottle?" 

But there's nothing here.  No cabins, just piles of burnt out rubble.  Dad's shop is still standing, but barely - leaning heavily, like a popsicle stick house built by a kid.  Doors blown wide open, some windows broken out.

Still.

It still feels like home, even on this grey, wet miserable April evening.  This place sinks its teeth into you, and it doesn't let you go.  Maybe it's the cedars, lining up the driveway in single file, that must be hundreds of years old.  Trunks as big as maples.  Maybe it's the stone shaped like the number six leaning against the first tree, in the same place it was on my sixth birthday.  Maybe it's the memories of Mystery Theatre on the radio after the news at midnight, of comic books read by oil lanterns, the treats brought in by all kinds of hippies who stopped at Bennett's store, the livestock wandering through the house.

Just one more day - a warm woodstove, a whiskey poured from the bottle hidden in a Cornflakes box, clothes covered in dog hair, seedlings in saucers on window sills, discussions jumping from politics to books to music to transmissions, clutches, fences, back to politics, all in furious voices and raucous laughter.  Can I ever go home?  Maybe someday.  

Someday, when all the menace has crept away or died, raged or rotted away from the ones who haunt this place, who linger, who threaten.  Maybe someday, dogs will run around me, as I hobble along with a homemade walking stick, waving at kids that come to visit:  

"D'ya bring me a bottle?"   

Tangled Up In Blue

The Ghomeshi verdict has everybody talking.  They say that's good - but what I fear is what it's got everybody thinking.  Specifically, any victim of abuse who's ever considered working up the courage and self-esteem to stand up for themselves against the very person who has stolen both their courage and belief in themselves.

It also has many on the outside looking in - questioning the victims' motives.  Hopefully, it will raise the topic of WHY victims don't speak out, can't speak out.  Which is a hard thing to answer, when most victims can't even tell you why.

I married my abuser.  And I was a strong person, with solid self-esteem, an incredible support system, family and friends.  I was well educated and outspoken.  And still, abuse erodes away everything good that everyone else tells you about yourself, until all you can believe is that you aren't worthy, and that you deserve the cruelty you live with.  And you try HARDER.  Until you're ashamed and embarrassed to leave, and everyone looking in still thinks he's a wonderful guy.  There was only one incidence of physical violence - which was never repeated, probably thanks to my brothers' presence in my life and the arrival of my Great Dane - who made my house feel safe for nine years.  The mental abuse was pretty much continuous, and exhausting enough to keep me emotionally off balance for years.

I was lucky.  My friends and family never once turned away from me.   They never once gave up on me.  They gave me back the strength I gave away.  How many victims don't have that kind of support? Even with that kind of support, I couldn't muster up the courage to make him accountable.  Losing more than a decade of my life is the price I paid for my silence.  Until the courts and the general public understand victim behaviour, we cannot hope for different verdicts in these cases, and I am very afraid that these results will keep future victims silent.  If you haven't ever been in their shoes:  listen, and don't judge.

And never, ever give up on them.

...Battery Charging...

Not fit for human consumption.  That's my mood today.  I like people, I really do.  I like to hear their stories and make them laugh; I like to tousle their hair and rub their backs and do nice things for them. I like people.  But maybe that's the very reason I sometimes find them difficult to be around. 

Because when you really, genuinely like people, they can disappoint you. They can hurt you, they can break your heart.  I refuse to become cynical to protect myself against those possibilities, but continuing to trust in the basic goodness of people does involve risk - a leap of faith.  I am grateful and lucky to have enough living proof surrounding me to know my faith is well-placed; I am grateful and lucky to have held two babies this weekend; I am grateful and lucky to share a home with young boys who make me laugh out loud, and to count my guy and my Grammy and my brother as my best friends.  I know I am luckier than most - and it makes me hold my breath sometimes.

And so, today I want to lay in a dark room with my dogs and 16 hours of Will & Grace on DVD.  Or a stack of books.  I don't want to cash in my faith-in-the-human-race chips, I just want to recharge my battery.