Chicken Bones Couldn't Sleep

Chicken Bones had brushed her teeth and washed her face. She had on her new pink flowered flannelette nightgown. Chicken Bones’ dad had read her a story and she was safely tucked into her bed. Chicken Bones’ mom was tidying up the living room. Chicken Bones knew her big sister Nancy would be climbing into her bed, on the other side of the room, very soon. Her biggest sister Thora would go to her own room next door a little after that. But Chicken Bones couldn’t sleep. It was Christmas Eve.
Chicken Bones thought about….
• the Sunday school pageant and wondered if she would ever get a leading role. (Chicken Bones was a fir tree again.)
• being born in a stable. She wondered if it was stinky and scratchy in there for that new little baby.
• frankincense. It was scary because it reminded her of Frankenstein.
• her dad struggling with bricks and a pail and the tree. Chicken Bones knew that she should sit very quietly on the turquoise couch while he worked. She knew that he would finally get it standing straight and then she could help decorate it.
• the presents hidden in her mom’s closet. She wished she hadn’t snuck in and looked at all of them already.
• how hard it was to wait.
• her great aunts in Montreal and Ottawa, and the gifts they sent from their travels all over the world. She knew she would get fancy new clothes from Holt Renfrew. She would also get unusual little items like PlayPlax blocks and scarecrow heads filled with even tinier treasures. She already knew this because the aunts wrapped their gifts with only ribbon and no tape, so it was easy to unwrap and rewrap without tell tale signs of snooping.
• being sneaky.
• her mom and dad’s Dutch friends, Paul and Toos. She was embarrassed that she already said “thank you for the chocolate letter” to them before she went to bed, when she hadn’t opened the letter yet. But she knew that’s what she would be getting because that’s what they gave her every year.
• ablekage. She loved it when her mom made this dessert for Christmas Eve because it made the night feel Danish.
• a road race set, a model town, an etch-a-sketch, a Cheerful Tearful doll, a Raggedy Ann and other stuff she asked Santa for.
• Santa. Chicken Bones worried that he might not fill her stocking if she didn’t get to sleep soon.
• Maurice and Dodie. She was glad that they always came out for Christmas Eve to have supper and open presents. Dodie always laughed lots, and Chicken Bones felt happy when she saw them holding hands.
• love.
• her foster sister Marlene and Marlene’s husband Jim. She wished they were there, too because they took such good care of her when she was a scrawny baby, and Jim gave her the special nickname, Chicken Bones.
• feeling small and cozy.
• ribbon candy, mixed nuts, sugar cookies and shortbread.
• pretending to act surprised in the morning.
• the empty glass and plate she would find on the kitchen counter…magical proof that Santa had been there.
• being excited and silly and full and tired and loved.

Good night.

Conni from Clandeboye
December 2010

Hard to wait.

©Conni Cartlidge, 2010

Prairie Islands

He calls them prairie islands.
The isolated yard sites scattered across the Manitoba landscape.

Protective orderly borders of evergreens guard shaky poplars and sweet smelling lilacs.
Stoic four square, two storey houses with hip roofs and weathered siding.
Sagging grey outbuildings and gun metal machine sheds.
A doghouse for a mangy mutt.
Dandelions and hollyhocks.
A buzzing light at the top of a leaning hydro pole marking the spot.
The half-mile driveway, a lifeline to the outside world.

Some might see desolation and loneliness.
Lost lots.
But she sees possibility and hope.
Together, they can build their own prairie island.

A life raft in the blue sea of flax.
A shady umbrella in the blinding yellow canola crop.
A down comforter under the cold cotton sheet of new snow.
An oasis in the wheat field.

Where scrappy scrub oaks support the tender weeping willows.
Cheerful chickadees encourage mourning doves.
Foxtails tickle the bleeding hearts.
And with optimistic apprehension and tentative anticipation, a new family can grow.

Within a prairie island.



 
Conni from Clandeboye
December 2010
 

Wishing for you a safe haven, a secure family, your own prairie island.
 


©Conni Cartlidge, 2010
 

Discovering Diversity

“She’s a witch, Mom.”

“Oh, okay… so does that mean I shouldn’t buy her a Christmas present?”


“He’s Jewish, Mom.”

“Oh, okay… so does that mean you won’t be caroling around the bonfire at your party?”


“I don’t want to sing about ‘The Lord’ at my concert, Mom.”

“Oh, okay… but you were baptized in the Anglican church when you were a baby.”


“WalMart sells sweat shop stuff, Mom.”

“Oh, okay… I’ll try Canadian Tire instead.”


“I’m smudging the house with sweetgrass, Dear.”

“Oh, okay… I’ll blow out my candy cane scented candles then.”


“It’s a right wing capitalist plot to make us consumer slaves, Mom.”

“Oh, okay… I won’t buy or make any gifts for anybody, but can we still have a turkey dinner?”


“I’m a vegetarian, Mom.”

“Oh………okay.”


Welcome to December, 2004.

Diversity has arrived in Clandeboye.

So here’s what I’m gonna do.

I’ll be up all night keeping a solstice fire burning. I’ll provide hot dogs and marshmallows for roasting (but some of them will be soy based). This will keep the vegan, Metis witches happy.

I’ll buy gifts carefully, keeping in mind who made them and under what circumstances and I’ll give them to people who really need them, people who have nothing and no one. This will keep the anarchists happy (I think).

I’ll burn candles and incense and sweetgrass and logs and kindling and anything else that seems appropriately flammable so that we can all have lots of light and warmth and mystical scents to lift our spirits. This should keep the Christians and the Jews and the Buddhists and the atheists and the depressed happy.

I’ll play lots of music, but I won’t do any caroling because I just can’t sing. This should make everyone happy.

And I’ll celebrate moms and dads and newborn babies because every family is a miracle.

And especially, I’ll celebrate my family for opening my eyes to diversity.



Imagine. Peace.





©Conni Cartlidge, 2010

Thank You

Written in 1999 for my parents' 50th wedding anniversary and inspired by Ian Ross' character "Joe from Winnipeg". Posted now for my family and friends celebrating Thanksgiving...

Hey you guys, this is me, Conni from Clandeboye, and today I’m gonna be talking to you about saying thank you, cuz I was thinking about how my Mom and Dad had been married for fifty years and how we were gonna have a party and their friends and family were gonna come over and it was Thanksgiving weekend, too and some people couldn’t come cuz they were gonna be having Thanksgiving dinner with their families, and what should I say to all these people and to Mom and Dad?

And so I got thinking about saying thank you and how I learned about saying this from my Mom and Dad in different ways, cuz they were each different but some things were the same, too and they always kinda went together some how.

So anyways, I remembered my Dad’s old aunts and we always called them “the aunts” or “the great aunts” and every Christmas they sent us presents from all over the place, like Portugal and Japan and Holt/Renfrew and everywhere and they were usually really good presents but then we had to sit down and write a thank you note and sometimes I didn’t really feel like it but I did it cuz I had to and I usually felt like I had done the right thing after I had mailed it cuz I guess if the aunts could think of getting a present for me while they were busy travelling I guess I could take a few minutes to say thank you. And you know, every year I got more gifts from them and they never forgot about me and my sisters and my Dad was happy that we did the right thing cuz that was his Mom’s sisters and that’s important. And I guess that they probably liked my little notes on my little kid's paper cuz then they knew that I liked my present and that I liked them, too.

So anyways I got thinking about my Mom and I got thinking about her Mom and how they taught me to say thank you in Danish after supper. So when Gramma would come to visit and she would make her skinny pancakes or something and I would finish eating I would say, “Tak fa ma” or “Tak” and Mom and Gramma would look happy cuz I was saying thank you and I was saying it in Danish so I guess they knew that I liked the pancakes and I liked Danish stuff and that was important, too.

So anyways, now it’s Thanksgiving time and it’s Mom and Dad’s anniversary so I’ve got a few reasons to say thank you. I gotta say thank you to all the people who couldn’t come today cuz they’re with their families for Thanksgiving cuz it’s important to be with your family at least some of the time and I’m happy that that’s what they’re doing. And I gotta say thank you to all the people who could come today cuz it makes Mom and Dad happy to see all of you and give you something to eat and drink and have fun together and remember some of the things you’ve done together. And that’s important. And it’s kinda like saying thank you to all of you for being part of their lives. And I really gotta say thank you to Mom and Dad cuz they had me and my sisters and they always stuck by us when we were happy and especially when we weren’t, and they stuck by each other, even though they were different but somehow always kinda the same. So what’s up with that? Anyways, they’ve been married for fifty years now so I guess they figured out what they’re doing and I guess they got it right. So thank you and tak to Mom and Dad for teaching me about saying thanks and for teaching me some other stuff, too. Cuz that’s important.

I’m Conni from Clandeboye. Tusind tak!



©Conni Cartlidge, 1999

Aunties & Aunts

Our extended family was just that: stretched out, prolonged, intense, moving at full stride. They lived far away from us. They were sometimes hard to keep track of. They were fun sometimes, and sometimes not. In spite of all the obstacles, Mom made sure we knew them all. For they were our family.

Auntie Thora was the eldest and most glamorous. We had seen many pictures of her, with a dramatic gray streak in her hair and a cocktail in her hand. She lived in exotic San Francisco. She had been divorced. (What a scandal!) She had two wild sons who we discovered were NOT glamorous. Her California home had windows that stretched from floor to ceiling. Despite the distance, Mom had us visit the Gould family. For they were our family.

Auntie Anna, the middle aunt, was fun. She could skip double dutch and do the jitterbug. She lived on a farm in Saskatchewan which we also considered glamorous in an earthy sort of way. She had SIX kids so there was always someone to play with. She could get the giggles just like a schoolgirl, and sometimes she was very sad. She was so real that we always cried when we left Sturgis. Despite the emotions, Mom had us visit the Paton family. For they were our family.

Auntie Alice was the youngest aunt. She, too was an American and had grown up there, far away from Mom. She had interesting American food like Danish Jelly and fruit cocktail cake and macaroni salad. She had an American accent and so did her three kids. She had another Mom, which somehow seemed to make perfect sense to us when we were small. She made us laugh when she worried and fussed about things. She welcomed us into her home. Despite the cramped quarters, Mom had us visit the Chamley family. For they were our family.

And Mom did not stop with her own siblings. She initiated and nurtured a loving relationship with Dad’s family, too. Now these members were known as the Aunts for they were far too distinguished and dignified to be called “Auntie”. They lived in Ottawa and Montreal and they were beyond glamorous. They were upper class, they were old money, they were professionals, and most of them were unmarried and extremely independent. They traveled around the world and bought us gifts that were unlike anyone else’s on Sutherland Avenue. They rang a small bell to summon their maid. They were Con, Doss, Ruth, Mary and Olive. They helped to raise our Dad. They were our family.

I hope that I have learned from Mom. With nephews and a niece in Edmonton, Vancouver and Thunder Bay, I hope I can build those family connections in spite of distance, emotions, space or class. For they are my extended family.



©Conni Cartlidge, 2010

Time to Think (An Election Week Story)

I learned a new word last week: prorogue. Made me think of professional, proactive, pros & cons, rogue elephants, mischievous rogues…but what it turned out to mean was the ending of a legislative assembly. The current prorogation (yes, another new word for me!) was different because the Governor General had to step in and call it. The parliamentary boys behaving badly were sent for a time out, a cool down, a chance to think about what they had done. Sounded like a good idea to me. So I prorogued myself. I stopped and took some time to think about what I did this past year. And this is what I remembered:

* Quietly savouring the cold January day that marked my 20th birthday in AA, and gratefully acknowledging the strong women and patient husband who have stood by me all these years.

* Joe leading Mary and I on a springtime hike through the bush and witnessing dozens of baby turtles swimming and bobbing and playing in the deep waters of a deserted gravel pit. The sight was worth every wood tick we later picked off of ourselves.

* Singing along to Amy Winehouse, too loudly and enthusiastically, on the summer road trip out east, and then suffering the humiliation of said singing being posted on Facebook. Thank you dear daughter.

* Bonding with my daughter-in-(common) law, Morgan, as she painstakingly, and only a little painfully, tattoos a maple seed on to my right wrist. A small symbol of my children – sometimes messy, but able to thrive and grow no matter where they fly or land.

* Listening to my sons jam together; Ari on banjo and Joe on guitar, and vice versa.

* Waking up at 2:00 am in a Toronto hotel room to the sounds of quiet sobbing as Brent, Joe and I feel the emptiness of Mary’s absence. Subsequently, the tears have turned to laughter as we watch her stand up routines at YukYuk’s, via youtube.

* Working with Brent to prepare our home for monthly house concerts with some Folk Festival favourites. The scrounged ping pong table stage is a great addition to the performance. Even our friends at the back of the room can enjoy the show!

* Sharing the heartbreaking grief of a young man’s death and trying to find the words to console his mother – the most difficult letter I have ever written for the saddest experience she has ever known.

* Riding my bike alongside my Dad on his 80th birthday during the Terry Fox run.

* Making rollepolser with Mom and remembering Grandma Pedersen as we work together. Was it an accident that Mom poked me with the sewing needle when we wondered aloud if we were making it according to Grandma’s standards?

* Anticipating full rooms in a partially empty nest during the holidays!

So my prorogation has been a success. I have taken time to think. My experiences have had nothing to do with economics or political parties. They are about a strong coalition of family and friends. To the politicians, I say, “Be thankful you have been prorogued. Think carefully about your actions. Try to solve your problems in new ways. Play nice. We’re counting on you.”

(Originally written in December 2008)




©Conni Cartlidge, 2008

Clothes: A Story About Mom

The clothes that we wore, the way we were dressed, the outfits we put together, have always been reflections of you.

One of my earliest memories of you is something you wore – the brown quilted skirt. What I remember best about it is using it for dress-up clothes in our pretend play, but I always knew it was yours and it was special and quite unique. Over the years, you tried many different styles…long hair, short hair (always red!), cat’s eye glasses, ‘cat-in-the-hat’ hats, cowboy boots and shirts, pedal pushers, jeans, pant suits, swim suits, polyester gowns, tennis shorts, tennis skirts, tennis shoes, running shoes, cameos, copper jewelry, and Hudson’s Bay & Linda Lundstrom jackets. We watched you change over the years, yet there was always a basic, consistent style that was you. You accepted the way you looked with little or no make-up, hair dyes, flashy jewels, high heels or gaudy colours. You were a great role model for us. You cared about how you looked but in a down to earth, comfortable sort of way.

When we were little, you were careful with the way we looked, too. Matching outfits purchased for Thora and Nancy would be gently cared for so that they could eventually become matching outfits for Nancy and me, and finally I would grow into the original Thora dress and wear it solo. How did you ever get those little cherry dresses and plaid sailor dresses to last so long? You performed the same miracle with our tights, carefully darning the toes until they could be darned no more. At that point, the feet of the tights would be removed, the legs hemmed, an elastic stitched on to hook under our arches, and
coordinating knee socks slipped over to keep our otherwise bare toes warm. You had already discovered the layered look!

On the first day of school, we always had a new ensemble for the obligatory photograph. New dresses and jumpers were often purchased during our summer travels, while new shoes were found at Edward’s on Manitoba Avenue. The lives of these outfits were also prolonged with careful use: dresses, jumpers and blouses were worn for two days in a row, with clean underwear daily! All items were set out by you the night before. What a great feeling it was to go to bed every night knowing that you had carefully prepared every detail for us.

We were always told (by you) that you could not sew and we accepted that because… you could knit the most amazing sweaters, hats, scarves and Barbie clothes in the world! There was always a warm siwash to wrap up in or a spectacular Mary Maxim sweater to keep out the cold. You knit for us throughout our lives and now you create for our children, too. We all appreciated the Aussie sweaters you made for us down under. How DID you knit in that sweltering heat??

While you tried out different looks over the years, you also tolerated our experiments in fashion! Pixie cuts, platform shoes, stretchies, mini midi & maxi skirts, hot pants, polyester, crushed velvet, bubble blouses, India cotton shirts, hippie plaid shirts with ripped & faded jeans, jean skirts, perms, afros, shags, blue mascara, black mascara, green mascara, green nail polish, halter tops, Joe Cocker shirts, smock tops, fake fur, real fur, pierced ears, clogs and earth shoes. You endured all of these, letting us express ourselves as we chose. Your example makes it easier for me to watch my own son dye his hair black or wear a necktie with a t-shirt!

Amazingly, I think we all ended up having pretty good taste in clothes! Shopping trips to Tergesen’s sure help! There have always been many ways that you showed us how much you loved us. Clothes may seem superficial, but the time you took with ours was filled with acceptance and care; a reflection of your love for us.

Thanks Mom.

(This was originally written about ten years ago and is being posted now to honour my Mom on her 80th birthday on October 19, 2010.)



©Conni Cartlidge, 2000

Invasion of the (healthy) Body Snatchers: How the Government and the School System Tried to Control My Family

He came home with a thick, orange information package. I cringed as I began the daunting task of deciphering its instructions. The provincial government and the local school division had teamed up to enforce a healthy lifestyle on my son. It was full of "musts" and "must nots" and narrow definitions of health. Daily activity was to be approved, monitored, measured and recorded, and include cardio workouts that were at least twenty minutes (otherwise it doesn't count) and increased his heart rate but were not part of paid work but were enjoyable. Huh? Risk management strategies had to be studied, point by point. (Did you know that walking has thirty-one risk factors?)

I stopped cringing and I started writing to his teacher....

Dear Ms. G.,

I have received and reviewed the Phys. Ed. 30/40 Out of Class Information Package that my son brought home last week. I have discussed the requirements with him and have told him that this year I choose to not lie. I will not sign forms that include inaccurate or exaggerated activities. Instead, I will present a number of activities that he participates in that promote physical fitness, discovery of individual interests and an enduring active lifestyle as proposed by the Healthy Kids, Healthy Futures Task Force Report.

My son's activities include:

Daily walks with our dog
These walks may be brisk twenty minute hikes or leisurely ninety minute strolls down backroads, through the bush, across creeks, wherever he & the dog feel like going. These walks promote his physical development as well as his affective development as he takes the time to care for our pet and enjoy nature. He is aware of the risks ie. poison ivy, bears, etc. and takes appropriate precautions using his common sense.

Regular bike rides
These rides occur 1 - 2 times per week, usually down backroads or around the gravel pits. They may also occur in town where he enjoys the company of friends or his grandparents. Physical and affective development are enhanced and risk factors are recognized.

Skating, shoveling, snow sculpting and tobogganing
These winter activities happen on a regular basis in our yard and on our creek. My son skates with family and friends and helps to keep the creek clear for this activity. He also works with his Dad to build a toboggan slide in the yard. As well, he helps to keep the driveways clear for our cars and for the school bus. Physical, affective and cognitive development are promoted, especially as he helps with problem-solving....how can we make the slide higher? longer? faster? The risks are what make this exciting!

Yard work as needed
Cutting grass and raking leaves are completed at home, for free and at two privates homes in town, where the residents are no longer able to do it for themselves. He is paid for this additional work, but he also enjoys it. He gets a physical workout and he feels happy about helping.

Volunteer work
Volunteering weekly at the local food bank involves loading and unloading the food bank truck. The shift is generally 3 - 5 hours. It is hard physical labour. But it is the affective development that is truly strengthened as my son learns about helping in the community. Risk factors? Without any help, others may go hungry.

Part time job
Working at the local general store every Saturday and Sunday for 7 - 8 hours (per day) involves physical skills such as hauling propane tanks, stocking shelves, cleaning floors, etc. Cognitive skills include money transactions, sorting mail, filling out licensing applications, etc. Affective skills include friendly customer service, responsibility, honesty, trust. It is paid work. I don’t quite understand how that negates its value in my son's healthy lifestyle.

Organized sports
These are not promoted in our home as we value cooperation over competition, and artistic creativity over physical prowess. In spite of this, my son has always enjoyed soccer, and continues to play tennis on an occasional basis with his grandfather or his friends. The biggest risk is that his grandfather might still win the game!

I hope this letter serves as proof that we are encouraging our child's healthy development in all areas. If you would like to discuss my concerns, I would be happy to meet with you or members of the Phys. Ed. department.

I feel it is very important to model honesty and integrity as I try to raise my son to be a good person.

Sincerely yours,

Conni C.


(I am happy to report, my letter was accepted and my son's "alternate" activities were approved. Whew!)

©Conni Cartlidge, 2010

Being Brave

(Originally presented to a group of students as they graduated from high school.)

I was a Teacher Assistant in your Grade Four class and your Grade Five class. I was thrilled to have this job because it was close to home, it meant working with ten and eleven year old kids (one of my favourite age groups) and especially, I got to work with Kurtis, the son of my old school-age friend, Maureen. I never expected that I would learn how to be brave during those years, but that is what you taught me! Here is how it happened….

When I was three years old, I walked off the end of a dock in Petersfield. As I felt myself sinking into the depths of Netley Creek, I hoped that someone at the family gathering had noticed my predicament. Luckily, my Dad dove in and scooped me out and I was okay… except for the fact that I then had to wear my sister’s underwear at the party while my clothes dried out! So I was not only scared, but humiliated too! Thus began my great dislike of water.

As a seven year old, I tried to take swimming lessons at Selkirk Park, but the bottom was muddy and disgusting and I cried and whined throughout the first level of classes and I never went back. So now water was gross to me, as well as scary and embarrassing.

As a scrawny little ten year old, I would watch my teenage sisters splash & dive in all kinds of lakes and rivers on family camping trips, while I timidly shivered at the water’s edge. I was just so puny that my skin would turn to goose bumps at the thought of jumping into that deep, yucky and very cold water. I had definitely decided that swimming was not for me!

So imagine my dismay when I discovered that I would be going to swimming lessons with all of you several times a week for several weeks! My dream job had suddenly become a nightmare!... But I had to do my job and I had to be there for Kurtis. And so we began our lessons.

As I ventured out on to the pool deck that first day, Kurtis found me very quickly and stood very close and I realized that he was scared, too. As we gingerly waded into the shallow end, Kurtis jumped up and wrapped his arms and legs around me so tight I could hardly breathe and I knew that he was terrified in this gigantic pool, and that I could not be. I had to be my strong father and my knowledgable swimming teachers and my confident sisters all in one. I looked at all the rest of you laughing and diving and floating and not drowning and I had to learn by your example. And my dad and my teachers and my siblings and you helped me to be brave for Kurtis and for me. So with the help of milk jugs and flutter boards, we learned how to swim. Though we never left the shallow end, Kurtis and I learned how to have fun in the water, especially when we could join in on relay races and games with all of you. And I no longer felt embarrassed or scared. I felt strong and brave.

Most of you have probably long forgotten your elementary school swimming lessons, but it was a turning point for me. Helen Keller said,"We could never learn to be brave…if there were only joy in the world." I learned to be brave through this scary swimming experience and I learned it from you. As you graduate from high school, remember that you taught me how to be brave.

Be brave in your choices. Be brave in your lives. Congratulations to all of you.




©Conni Cartlidge, 2010

Chicken Bones and her Biggest Sister

1

A prairie January nighttime drive was not what Chicken Bones wanted to be a part of. She was squashed in the back seat of the icy car. The plastic frost shields on the passenger windows were cracked and useless. She could see nothing. It was after supper, so it was pitch black out anyway. She pouted and whined because she had to go all the way to Teulon to watch her biggest sister, Thora give a speech in an oratorical contest. (Chicken Bones thought it should be called an ora-Thora-cal contest.) It felt like a drive to eternity, but Chicken Bones and her family finally made it to the school gym where the contest was being held. (The trip took forty-five minutes.) Chicken Bones squirmed on the slippery metal chair while Thora gave a talk about something very grown up. Chicken Bones didn’t really understand what Thora was talking about but she was impressed with Thora’s brave voice and stylish sling-back shoes. She tried to listen and behave herself. And in the end, Thora won the oratorical contest. (She almost always won everything.) Chicken Bones was excited about Thora’s trophy because it was shiny and gold with a heavy marble base and it looked very important. Chicken Bones wondered if she would ever get up on a stage and give a speech and win a trophy like her biggest sister. Chicken Bones was in awe of Thora.


2

A hot dry Saskatchewan evening offered Chicken Bones a little forbidden excitement. She was visiting her cousins at their cabin. There were six cousins, but Chicken Bones just played with the youngest two, Charles and Bobby. The older cousins had better things to do. The older cousins had a teen dance to go to at the recreation hall. They took Thora to the dance because she was a new girl and many of the boys thought she was pretty cute. (Chicken Bones thought she was beautiful.) After the teenagers left for the dance, Charles and Bobby told Chicken Bones that they could all sneak out and watch the dance through a crack in the door. Little kids were not allowed at the dance, so away they snuck. Bobby, Charles and Chicken Bones giggled and pushed and stubbed their toes as they ran through the dark on the dusty gravel road. They saw the lights from the hall and could hear music. The closer they got, the sillier they acted. When Chicken Bones finally got to peer through the crack, she saw Thora dancing in a different kind of way. As “Louis Louis” and “Hanky Panky” and “Red Rubber Ball” blasted from the speakers, Thora held her arms straight out from her sides, tilted her head a little, shuffled her feet, and shrugged her shoulders up and down to the beat. (Chicken Bones was mesmerized.) All the cousins and their friends danced with Thora. As Chicken Bones nervously scurried home with Bobby and Charles, she felt proud to have such a popular and coordinated sister. She wondered if she could ever be admired the way that Thora was.



3

Chicken Bones was much much younger than Thora. So when Chicken Bones was drawing stick people on the chalkboard in the basement, Thora was already learning to sew in Home. Ec. classes. She made a perfect black and white checked gingham apron for herself. There was a tiny bit of fabric left so she created a little gingham fish for Chicken Bones. It was stuffed with bits of old sponge and had two black buttons for eyes. Chicken Bones liked it a lot and usually slept with it at night. This was important because Chicken Bones was often scared at night and had nightmares about lions under the stairs and dead soldiers under the bed. (A little cuddly toy usually helped Chicken Bones feel better.) One night, Chicken Bones was VERY SCARED. She was crying a lot. Her dad came into her room and told her that the little fish was a magic fish and that it would always keep her safe. Chicken Bones was so happy to hear this news. From then on, she clutched her magic fish in her hand and she was always safe. Chicken Bones didn’t know how Thora sewed a magic fish, but it worked. Chicken Bones hoped that she could create magic like Thora one day. Chicken Bones was very grateful to have Thora as her biggest sister.


4


Chicken Bones and Thora grew up. Chicken Bones became a college instructor and she was happy that she had learned how to stand up in front of people and talk and not be nervous. She learned this from Thora. (But she never got a trophy.) Thora became a landscape architect and she makes magic still, with plants and flowers and trees. (Sometimes they help protect people with shelter and shade.) For several years, Chicken Bones took many kinds of dancing lessons such as ballet and jazz and contemporary and highland but she never quite displayed Thora’s coordination (or popularity).

Chicken Bones loved Thora anyways.

She loves her to this day.


August 2010

(Happy Birthday today, Thora!)




©Conni Cartlidge, 2010

Moms of Sons: A Love Letter

We were moms of sons. They were little boys who had stolen our hearts. As we struggled with divorce, custody, child support, remarriage and blended families, they laughed and loved us, and we, them. In July 1989, they played on the monkey bars – your little guy in his miniature tuxedo and mine in white pants and sandals and candy striped shirt. (What was I thinking?) They had no cares, for we fought to protect them. We did not want them to suffer from adult hurts and worries.

We were moms of sons. They were boys growing, still tied up in our heart strings. Skating on the creek, tobogganing, bonfires, jamming, strange hairstyles (why did I continue to give him mullets?), neon clothes, big brother status. They began to understand life outside of their small worlds. We held them close, while hesitantly letting them explore on their own.

We were moms of sons. They were young men securely embedded in our spirits. They created their own friendships, relationships, work experiences and fun. They remembered each other, but followed different paths. They experienced their own loves and heartbreaks. We tried to help them through the rough times (you & your son and a pot of tea; my boy & I having lunch together at a vegan restaurant of his choice), but we could no longer protect them from the roller coaster ride of adulthood.

His death shocked my son and me. We talked on the phone for a long time. We remembered fun times together. I told him how much I loved him. (Do you think our sons can ever really comprehend that?) I thought about my own battles with addiction (so cunning and baffling) and depression. I cried and cried. And I thought about the crushing sadness you must be experiencing. My heart goes out to you. I don’t know what else I can say.

We are moms of sons. No matter where our boys are, they live within us.

Love,
Conni

September 2008






©Conni Cartlidge, 2008

Fascination with Sad

When I was little I wanted to read the sad parts. Matthew’s death in Anne of Green Gables, Charlotte’s demise in Charlotte’s Web and the “final flight” of the young heroine in The Birds’ Christmas Carol all held me spellbound. I would read them over and over again till I felt a little sick, and then let go to the tears. I would have a real good bawl. Then I would put the books away till I needed them again. I was fascinated with sad.

I guess you could say that my childhood was pretty much carefree and fun. I did well in school. I had lots of friends at my birthday parties. My mom made delicious brownie cake. My dad took us on amazing vacations every summer. My sisters passed down their clothes to me (and these of course were the height of style and coolness because they had worn them). I had a comfortable house to live in with a variety of pets and toys. Yeah, pretty much the classic middle-class life.

So why was I sneaking down to the basement to read the saddest chapters I could find? ‘Cause I needed some of the sad and bad. I needed to cry. I wanted the heartache and frustration and fury. I still do. I don’t want to be Little Miss Sunshine or Pollyanna ‘cause that would blind me to the negative. And then I wouldn’t try to change or grow or advocate or support or care. If I live in a bubble, I will burst. If I read the sad stuff, I will stop and be still. I will cry. I will think. I will be provoked. I will try to make a difference. And I will have tears that are sad and happy because I have learned something.

I wish for you, too just a little bit of sadness mixed with sensitivity and love.

December 2007

“When it gets dark enough, you can see the stars.”
Charles A Beard






©Conni Cartlidge, 2007

Teaching and Learning

Yessir, I was feeling pretty smart. I was feeling pretty proud. I had been given a job to do and I figured I could really make a difference. My boss had called my coworker and me into her office in January to tell us that Health Canada (yes the federal government) in partnership with the Cree Nation wanted us to develop and teach a course called Introduction to Early Childhood Care and Education. We would teach this course to Early Childhood Assistants and Early Childhood Educators from remote First Nations communities all over Manitoba. We would teach about a variety of topics including health & safety, positive guidance and one of my favourites, the importance of play.

So I got busy. I was ready to wow them with Piagetian power point presentations covering the types, styles and stages of play, the factors that distinguish play from non-play (according to Rubin, Fein & Vandenberg no less) and the ways that play promotes the development of children’s physical, cognitive and affective domains, all pulled together with some clever and amusing anecdotes from my wealth of experience with young children. Yessiree, I was feeling pretty smug. I was gonna be a fabulous, fun teacher.

I had no idea.

I did not anticipate the stories that I would hear from my students.

I did not know what I would learn….

I asked, “How did you like to play when you were little?”
“What did you like to play with?” “Why was this important to you?”

And they responded. Some boisterous. Some laughing. Some shy. Some with tears.

"I loved to play school. I had no brothers or sisters or dolls. But I had a patchwork quilt on my bed. So each patch was a student and I would stand beside my bed and be the teacher. I taught them letters and numbers and how to behave. The patches were my students. I loved playing school."

"I grew up on the trap line with my grandparents so I didn’t have toys. I would find a stick or branch and wrap a rag around it and that would be my baby doll. I took very good care of it."

"My brother and me built a fort in the bush. We worked really hard on it. It was great. And it was a safe place if Mom and Dad were drinkin’… y’know?"

"I loved playing baseball. I played with my three cousins and they let me play even though I was a girl. We had so much fun. Then one summer when I was a teenager they were all killed in a car accident so I couldn’t play baseball anymore. I miss them."

"I didn’t get to play in the foster home. My sister and I had to work on the farm. When I was eight, I finally got to live with my real Mom again. She bought each of us a Barbie doll. It was my first doll. I loved her so much. I was so happy to be with my Mom. I still love Barbies and I’m forty years old!"

"Every spring my grandmother’s flooded garden became a magic lake."

And so my charts and facts and theories became irrelevant. I had forgotten the most important part. In the end, I was not the teacher. I became the humbled student. I learned about the vulnerable hearts of children and the resilient, resourceful souls of the adults they become.

So I’m not quite so self satisfied anymore. Yessir, I nudged myself down a notch or two. I know I can still pass on valuable information about children and play but my students taught me about true understanding.

Stop shopping and go play! Peace.

December 2006

(Note: Students’ stories are not direct quotes, but are as close to the real thing as I can remember!)





©Conni Cartlidge, 2006

Music Lessons

I can’t play music. I tried piano lessons. My big sister was going to teach me. Her expectations were high. I didn’t want to practice. I cried and pouted. She was mad. We shut it down after two classes.

I love music. I grew up with 78s and 45s and LPs and 8 tracks and cassettes and CDs. I listen to lots of music, preferably loud.

I’m sorry that I can’t play. I’m happy that I love music anyways. I’m thrilled that my kids love music and can play it too. As babies, they listened to Fred Penner and Raffi and Patsy Cline and John Hiatt and Led Zeppelin and Prince and George Harrison and Johnny Winter…

As young children, they actually enjoyed piano lessons with energetic, enthusiastic teachers (who were not related to them…important lesson learned).

In elementary school, they mastered recorders and ukuleles and proudly played them in crowded gyms for parents and grandparents and siblings.

Then came the big step up to junior high. I fussed and worried about how they would cope, given my somewhat unpleasant memories of those early teen years. I tried to keep an open mind, and was happy that each one chose to go into the band program.

My first son chose the clarinet. He squeaked along with the patient support and ready sense of humour of his band teacher. (Thank you Ms. Inniss!) My daughter chose the French horn. I’m told it’s difficult to play. She played it well. More support. More positive feedback. (Thank you Mr. Brandon!) My second son chose euphonium (what the heck is that, I wondered) then quickly switched to double bass. I don’t know if he got to change instruments because he was talented at bass or because he was simply big enough to handle this oversized device…but again, encouraging words and extra challenges (Thanks again Mr. Brandon!) helped my son play beautifully.

And so we got to high school (and I say we, because it’s the kids and the parents that have to make this new adjustment!) My clarinet player was now quite accomplished and chose to major in Performing Arts. In the beginning, his skills were nurtured by several teachers. (Thank you Ms. Dawson, Mr. Houston & Mr. Gardner!). In Grades 11 & 12, his skills were refined and perfected. Along with clarinet, he played guitar, bass and double bass. He played in concert band, symphonic band, jazz band. He accompanied the choir. He entertained at Star Search and WarChild. He became a musician. He graduated with honours. Thank you Mr. Johnson. Do you remember meeting us on a Saturday morning at St. John’s Music to help us pick out a professional clarinet? Do you remember giving us your home phone number so we could call you if we had any concerns or questions? I remember that.

My French horn player also chose to continue with the band program in high school. She was warmly welcomed. (Thank you again Mr. Houston & Mr. Gardner!) In Grade 11, she was ready for Mr. Johnson. She had watched him with her brother and knew that he was big and intimidating and funny and emotional and demanding. She was up for the challenge. She practiced. She played her horn with confidence. She learned some percussion too, when he needed her help. She became a musician. She graduated with honours. Thank you Mr. Johnson. Do you remember talking to me in September, a couple of years ago and asking me about my daughter’s trip to Second City Boot Camp in Chicago? Do you remember how excited we both were that she was brave enough to have done that? I remember.

My double bass player spent many evenings over the years squirming in uncomfortable seats in the theatre, watching Mr. Johnson conduct while his brother and sister played. This fall, it is my youngest son’s turn to play. As he chose his options for Grade 10, he decided to also major in Performing Arts. I told him that Mr. Johnson would not be teaching him. “I’m disappointed. I wanted to have him for a teacher,” he said. My son would have benefited from Mr. Johnson’s expertise and expectations at this higher level. The MBA Summer Band Camps have already given him a taste of future possibilities. Thank you Mr. Johnson. Do you remember sending me an email a while back saying that you were looking forward to teaching my last child? I do.

My family and I will always love music, even though I never did learn to play. My last son will continue in the band program, even though Mr. Johnson will not be there. We will miss Mr. Johnson.

We will enjoy my son’s concerts.

But I wonder if the notes will sound as sweet.

©Conni Cartlidge, 2008

Chicken Bones and Nancy

Tea party.

1

The street had been paved. It was no longer tar and gravel. It was paved and had beautiful black curbs. Chicken Bones walked behind Nancy. It was expected. Because Chicken Bones was little and Nancy was three years older. Chicken Bones was happy to walk behind her big sister though. From this vantage point, she could watch Nancy’s perfect blonde ponytail swing from side to side. (Chicken Bones had a mousy brown pixie cut.) She could watch Nancy prance along the top of the new curb. (Chicken Bones slipped off the sides and scraped her ankles.) She could admire Nancy’s cute pop top and coordinating pedal pushers. (Chicken Bones covered her skinny limbs with her striped grey t-shirt and faded red stretchies.) She could follow her down the smooth new street. She could love her from a distance.



2

The blizzard had hit. The drifts were piled to the eaves. It was cold and white and untouched. Chicken Bones followed Nancy outside. She didn’t know what to do with the backyard. She stood and shivered. Nancy designed and dug and created a labyrinth of tunnels. (Chicken Bones tried to not get lost.) Nancy carved out snow seats and tables and set them with frozen crystal dishes. (Chicken Bones licked her mitts.) Nancy fortified the entrances with sticks and blankets. (Chicken Bones got a little bit scared in the dark.) Nancy created a magical wintry world and she shared it with Chicken Bones. They stayed in it as long as they could. When they went in for supper, Nancy was proud of her work. (Chicken Bones cried because her fingers and toes were burning from the cold.) She cried, too, because she wanted to stay with Nancy. She loved her when they played together.




3

The bath was over. The teeth were brushed. Clean flannelette pyjamas were on. Chicken Bones sat with Nancy. Nancy was a good reader and Chicken Bones loved to listen. (Chicken Bones couldn’t read yet.) Nancy read “Susie Says” and “Just Josie” with a little bit of a lisp and Chicken Bones wished she could talk like that. Chicken Bones liked to watch, too, as Nancy’s mouth pronounced the words in a special way because she had one tooth that was just a tiny bit crooked. (Chicken Bones eventually grew extremely crooked teeth that required years of orthodontia. She never got a cute lisp.) Nancy would read and read and read until Chicken Bones was tired or cranky or fidgety. Then Chicken Bones would be sent to bed because she was the youngest and, according to the posted bedtime schedule, had to retire first. Nancy got to stay up an extra half hour and watch TV shows that Chicken Bones didn’t get to. (Chicken Bones would lie awake in bed straining to hear what the show was about.) She knew that Nancy would eventually find her way to their room. And Chicken Bones would fall asleep knowing that her big sister would be there in the morning. Chicken Bones loved Nancy day and night.



4

Their childhood was passed. The middle years had arrived. Chicken Bones and Nancy had their own kids and grandkids. (Chicken Bones got bigger than Nancy.) But Chicken Bones still looked up to her sister.

She loves her to this day.

July 2010

(Happy Birthday today, Nancy!)

Birthday party.

©Conni Cartlidge, 2010

The Watcher

They called her “the watcher.” My daughter, Mary quietly sat at the playdough table for the first year of nursery school. As she rolled and patted, she watched. Her teachers wondered and worried a little. They tried to entice her into different activities and play experiences. But for the first year, she just watched. By the second year, she gradually branched out to puzzles and pretend, but she continued to watch.

In kindergarten, she walked around the playground at recess. She stayed close to a teacher and watched the shenanigans on the climbers and swings. When a key was lost in the sandbox, she patiently searched until it was found.

Adults began to appreciate her. She was not disruptive in school. She did her work and did it well. The good teachers realized that when she did speak, she usually had something important to say. Classmates learned to listen carefully.

The challenge of junior high was met with dignity, as she observed the girls getting sillier and the boys joining in. She was a part of it but also apart from it. She began to write. She edited the yearbook. She prepared herself for high school.

Now at age sixteen, she is finding her voice in the Royal Voice, her high school newspaper. Her careful observations of her surroundings are written into her humour column, “How to be…” (how to be bad, how to be politically charged, etc.)

A month ago, she asked me to take her to Chicago for two weeks this summer so that she can attend the Second City Boot Camp for sketch comedy writing. I said no. Then I said yes. My teenage daughter and I will leave our dead end gravel road in rural Manitoba to live in downtown Chicago from July 24 – August 4, 2006. I have only been to Chicago once before. It was the early 80’s and I was there to see a spiritual master (but that is another long story).

So Mary is working hard at her part-time job at the local corner store to save her money. My husband and I are trying to pull together some cash, too so that Mary and I can go on this huge adventure. We don’t know what to expect and to be honest, I’m terrified. But I will do this for Mary. I will do this because her watching is becoming her telling of life as she sees it.

©Conni Cartlidge, 2006

A Tribute to Dad on his 75th Birthday

“AL” ISMS

ISM: manner of action or behaviour characteristic of a specified person or thing; peculiar feature or trait (Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary)

ALISM: characteristic behaviour of Al C. or typical reactions of our Dad! (Conni & Nancy)

“Ticky boo”: how Al describes a job done according to his standards; how the lawn should look after a grandchild has mowed it.
“Perhaps”: Al’s response to a new grandchild asking if they can learn how to mow the lawn.
“Don’t be stunned”: Al’s admonition to six year old Conni when she gets too silly.
“I’m gonna phone Santa”: Al’s threat to Conni when the silliness still doesn’t stop!
“Okay folks…up & at ‘em…chop chop”: Al’s morning greeting to his sleeping children, in the tent, sometime before 7:00 am, somewhere where the temperature dips below freezing even in July!
“You better hustle”: Al’s back-up call to his still sleeping children, in the tent, sometime between 7:05 am and 7:06 am, somewhere where the temperature dips below freezing even in July!
“You’d better jolly well like it”: Al’s suggestion to his daughters as they go to visit a football stadium or baseball game during the aforementioned July holiday. The temperature has now skyrocketed to 38 degrees Celsius in the shade.
“Do you wanna get out and walk?”: Al’s fitness program for his three cranky, arguing daughters in the back seat of the car as they leave the sports event and head across the desert in Arizona. The temperature has now hit 40 degrees Celsius and air conditioning has not been invented yet.
“You don’t need a shower. You can have a swim in the lake.”: Al reassures his still cranky, hot and sweaty daughters as they arrive at a new campground, sometime in July.
“Well sir…”: Al begins a Little Albert story for his girls, at the end of a long day in July, by a bonfire, somewhere far away, in spite of their somewhat endless whining and sulking in the back seat of the car.
“No worries. She’ll be right.”: Al reassures his daughters during difficulties. (post-Australia)
“Isn’t that clever/ Aren’t you clever.”: Al’s response to an accomplishment; sometimes said with sincerity (a good report card), sometimes with sarcasm (a bad report card).
“He did a buster.”: Al’s description of a child wiping out on a bicycle, a skateboard, down the basement stairs, etc.
“It’s an easy paddle.”: Al reassures all novice canoeists before any canoe trip in any body of water.
“Wood ticks are my friends!”: Al exclaims to frantic grandchildren during any canoe trip in any body of water and in adjoining long grass on the edges of the water.
“Where’s the lipkissy?”: Al asks Mary for chapstick during any canoe and/or camping trip (as noted by his confused grandchildren).
“Tough times”: Al’s response to his children and grandchildren, during a crisis; always said with sincerity.
“It must be dreadful”: Al sympathizes, again with sincerity.
“Hope this might be helpful to you”: as Al gives time, money, understanding to his children and grandchildren during yet another crisis.
“Very wise decision”: Al supports the choices his children and grandchildren make.
“I really like that!”: Al’s response to gifts, especially home-made ones.
“Love, Dad”: signature accompanied by a drawing of a heart with an arrow through it, on all cards for all occasions.

Thanks Dad, for your “Al”isms, nasty and nice. They make you one of a kind!

September 2003

At Seven O' Clock Take a Walk

At Seven O’ Clock Take a Walk

Part I

7:00 p.m. is the perfect time to take a walk. I don’t mean a power walk, with pedometers and ankle weights and athletic shoes. I mean a slow, steamy stroll down the street in old flip-flops. I mean a leisurely, puddly meander up the avenue in rubber boots. I mean a clumsy, cold trudge through the park in oversize Sorels. I mean exploring the neighbourhood with your partner. Holding hands. Grabbing the dog, too. Grasping the leash. Taking a sip of water now and then. Seeing the sights of your home, your city, heck, your whole province! Walking is the most intimate way to learn about your world; the one that you whiz by each day as you carry out the business of life. Walking slows you down and gives you time for the intricate details of life and living.

What have I seen on evening walks in my rural neighbourhood? Snapping turtles mating. (Ouch!) A three legged painted turtle that my kids affectionately called Stumpy. Four baby beavers playfully swimming in circles and squealing. A dead coyote. A stolen burnt car. Wild plums. Wild roses. Foxtails. Cattails. A mallard duck stranded in the ice. Baby wood ducks being pushed from the nest for the first time. Bear poop. Dragonflies. Damselflies. A snowy owl in a tree during a full moon. Northern lights. Shooting stars. A stray cat at the top of a tree with my dog sitting patiently at the base. My neighbours swimming in their pond. A farmer combining. A flax field burning. (Spectacular!) My children posing goofily on giant round bales. Mouse tracks in the snow. Deer tracks in the mud. Life in Manitoba. A little bit of living at seven o’ clock.

Part II

At 7:00, take a walk with the one you love. Here are a few tunes to inspire you:

Walkin’ After Midnight – Patsy Cline
These Boots are made for Walkin’ – Nancy Sinatra (not Jessica Simpson!!)
Walk This Way – Aerosmith
Walk on By – Dionne Worwick
Walk Away – Franz Ferdinand
Takin’ a Walk – John Prine
Walk the Line – Johnny Cash
Walk – Pantera
I Walk a Fiery Line – The Farrell Brothers
My Walkin’ Shoes – The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band
Walk, Idiot, Walk – The Hives
Sidewalk When She Walks – Alexisonfire
The Blues Walk – Lyle Lovett
Walking Contradiction – Green Day
Walk On – John Hiatt
Walking in the Woods – The Pursuit of Happiness
Walkin’ Blues – Eric Clapton
Walking in the Fire – Resistance
Spiritwalker – The Cult
Walk of Life – Dire Straits
Walkin’ on the Sun – Smashmouth
Walking on Sunshine – Katrina and the Waves
Walking Away – Jonny Lang
If I was Your Woman/Walk on By – Alecia Keys
Walkin’ All Night – Little Feat
Don’t Walk Away Eileen – Sam Roberts
Walkin’ with a Mountain – Mott the Hoople
Walking on the Moon – The Police
Walk Right In – The Rooftop Singers
Walk on the Wild Side – Lou Reed (the ultimate classic!)



Part III

Over the days, months, weeks and years, enjoy walking through life together. Slowly. Holding hands. With lots of love.

September 2006

The Girl and Her Aunt

The Girl and Her Aunt

Once upon a time there was a scrawny young girl. She was a little bit shy and sometimes silly. She had an aunt that lived very far away from her. She didn’t see her aunt very often but she heard lots of stories about her because the aunt was the big sister of the girl’s mom. The girl heard that her aunt was very cute and could dance the jitterbug like nobody else when she was a teenager. The girl thought it was so romantic that the aunt had eloped with her boyfriend and that they had six children together. “What a big family!” the girl thought to herself.

One day, the girl’s mom and dad said they could all go to visit the aunt on her farm. So they drove and drove for many miles and finally the girl got to be with her aunt. She was so excited! The aunt didn’t dance the jitterbug anymore, but she did let the girl and her cousins use broomsticks and mops for microphones. They pretended they were The Supremes singing “Stop In The Name of Love”. The little girl was being very silly and the aunt laughed and laughed and she was silly, too! When it was time to leave the farm, the girl cried very hard, and so did the aunt. And this helped the girl to not feel so shy. This helped the girl to know her far away aunt better.

Time went on, and the girl became a teenager and the aunt moved farther away. One day, the teenage girl’s mom and dad said they could all go to visit the aunt at her home on an island. So they drove and drove for many miles and finally the girl got to be with her aunt again. She was so excited! The girl didn’t sing with broomsticks anymore, but she had fun swimming in the lake with her cousins and talking about things with her aunt. And she didn’t feel shy because her aunt let her say whatever she wanted. And her aunt said what she wanted, too. And they listened to each other. Sometimes they were sad together and sometimes they were silly. And this helped the girl to know her far away aunt better.

More time went by, and the girl grew up into a young woman. She got married and had children of her own. And her aunt sent the young woman and her children birthday cards every year. And the aunt poured out her thoughts on the cards so much that she would run out of room and have to write sideways to fit it all in. Some thoughts were very sad and some thoughts were silly and all of the thoughts were sent with hugs and kisses filled with love. And so the young woman stayed close to her far away aunt and her children did, too.

Many years passed, and the young woman got older and so did her aunt. One day, the woman’s parents said the aunt was very sick. The woman’s mother flew far away to be with the aunt. But this time, the woman could not go along. So she stood outside alone at night and talked to her far away aunt. And she knew that her thoughts would reach her aunt because it had never mattered to them how far apart they were. And the woman felt a little silly out there in the dark and quite sad because her aunt was so sick. “I love you, Auntie,” said the woman.

And when the aunt finally died, the woman knew that they would always love each other, wherever they were, happily ever after.

©Conni Cartlidge, 2005

small boxes

small boxes

small boxes hold big treasures

a carved wooden apple opens and inside, a tiny tea set for a little girl’s imagination and delight

diminutive disneykin characters collected from toothpaste tubes

the magical world of polly pocket hidden within a plastic compact

a fake crystal container holds an imitation sapphire and diamond necklace, chosen by a four year old boy for his mom on her birthday

a converted chicken coop home for newlyweds

a three minute stand-up routine conveys all the love of a young woman for her contrary grandpa

a heart shaped pebble

a cozy bedtime story

fairy-winged maple seeds

a twenty minute slideshow of a sixty year marriage

one bedroom for five people, mom dad brother sister and baby

a kiss hello, a kiss good-bye

life changing events condensed into a rectangular newspaper column

a tiny newborn’s fist raised, foretells the future

a short song written from the heart

a simple wooden box holds the memories hopes pain laughter ashes of someone that was loved

brief moments, loving gestures, big treasures, small boxes





©Conni Cartlidge, 2010