Slaps

I’ve taken a few hits in my lifetime.

A terrified swat on the bottom as Dad snatched me away from an open geyser in Yellowstone Park.

A flat-handed smack across the cheek when I dared to disagree with a drunken angry teenage boy at a high school party.

Blood red manicured nails dug into my throat by a jealous girl.

An open gash to my shin after a regrettable night of socializing.

But nothing slapped me so hard as the news that my friend had cancer. Her husband came to my door and all he could say was, “She had a mastectomy last week.”

She and I met when I was four. We stared at each other from our respective front steps when she moved in across the street. She held her dog close and I sucked my thumb. Somehow, we got passed this and became friends for life. I printed our initials in a heart inside my closet. We played tag, we dressed and undressed and redressed our Barbie dolls, we listened to records, we cried about awful boyfriends, we covered for each other during our terrible teens, and we slowly grew up and went in different directions. Somehow we always stayed in touch though; maybe at the Folk Festival or an anniversary or a camping trip back to the Interlake. We finally both settled near each other and chatted now and then, but some distance had grown over the years. Just took things for granted.

But the clobber of cancer nearly bowled me over. I went to her and she said, “Yeah, I had a nice set, and now I’ve only got one.” Lopsided. Asymmetrical. And we laughed while we both fought tears.

So she went for chemo and she went for radiation and sometimes I went with her and we shaved her head and we wore goofy hats and we got stupid and silly and we were four years old again. And now she’s healthy.

I think I am too.

Wishing you love and friendship.

December 2012



©Conni Cartlidge, 2012

Disclosure

Jot niranjan

Onkar

Rarenkar

Sohang

Sat naam

Five names repeated silently

Secrets never to be shared

Words to stop my thoughts

My brain

Washed

Scrubbed clean of filthy attachments to

Friends and possessions

And 

Family

Words to keep me pure and selfless

And

Quiet

Five secret names

Now exposed on paper

By the wind.

October 2012              Conni Cartlidge                (Wind Spirit Woman)






©Conni Cartlidge, 2012

Two Rooms

One room is in the basement. It has no windows. It is claustrophobic and dark. It is currently a storage closet.

It will become a full-time office for instructors at a public college.

Another room is on the second floor. It has large south-facing windows that look out on the children’s natural playspace. It is adjacent to other offices and classrooms. It is easy for students to find. It is spacious and bright.

It is currently a prayer room. It is usually empty.

Maybe those who occasionally feel the need to pray would benefit from the small quiet basement room.

Perhaps four or five busy instructors and their students would benefit from the space, natural light, companionship and camaraderie that are available on the second floor.

Could these two rooms change places?

Why?

Why not?

Chicken Bones and Fish

(A story for Delilah)

Chicken Bones was the littlest.

Chicken Bones was the scrawniest.

Chicken Bones could not play piano like her biggest sister Thora. 

Chicken Bones could not read books like her middle sister Nancy. 

Chicken Bones was certainly not a teenager like her foster sister Marlene.

But Chicken Bones was a happy little girl most of the time.

She liked to dress up in fancy clothes for special occasions.

She liked to have tea parties with Nancy.

She tried really hard to skate when Thora took her outside.

She could ride a tricycle up and down the sidewalk all by herself.

And she had lots of pals to play with in her neighbourhood.

But sometimes Chicken Bones got very scared….

When the boy down the street threw a daddy-long-legs in her hair, she screeched and ran around in circles till she shook it off. She forgot that the bug was probably scared too.

When she fell off a dock into some deep water, she kicked and flailed as she sank. She forgot that her dad would jump in and catch her.

When a big black bear stood up on its hind legs and marched into her campsite while she was eating breakfast with her family, she threw down her porridge and ran screaming into the tent. She forgot that her mom would shoo that old bear away by banging pots and lids together.

But mostly, Chicken Bones got scared when it was time to go to sleep. 

She had many, many dolls and stuffed animals to sleep with. She had her beautiful Pamela doll that she got from her great-aunt Con. Pamela came from France. She had real human hair and skin that felt like peaches. Chicken Bones also had her soft, comfortable Raggedy Ann doll. If you changed Ann’s clothes, she could also be Raggedy Andy! And Chicken Bones had a horse that she could use as a gigantic pillow. She could sleep with it or pretend to ride it!

Chicken Bones also had one funny little creature that her biggest sister Thora made for her. It was a fish. It was sewn with leftover black and white gingham fabric from an apron that Thora made at school. It was stuffed with bits of sponge to make it soft and it had two black button eyes. Chicken Bones liked that little fish because her biggest sister made it for her. So along with Pamela, Raggedy Ann and the horse, Chicken Bones slept with Fish in her hand. It fit just right.

In spite of the comfort of these companions, Chicken Bones still got very scared at bedtime. When she fell asleep, she had nightmares about lions and soldiers. She woke up terrified because she thought her dreams were real. She forgot they weren’t. She leapt from her bed and dashed down the hallway to her parents’ room. She woke them up with her tears and they comforted her and told her everything was all right. They put her back to bed and eventually she fell asleep.

But night after night this happened and Chicken Bones was tired and her parents were too. Finally, one evening, Chicken Bones’ dad came into her room to talk with her. He asked her where Fish was. Of course, it was clutched in her frightened clammy hand.

“Did you know that Fish is a magic fish?” he asked.

Chicken Bones studied Fish carefully and then gazed at her dad.

“Nnno…” said Chicken Bones, feeling a little unsure.

“When your sister made that for you, she gave it special magic powers,” he said. “As long as that little fish is in your hand, nothing can hurt you or scare you. It will protect you every night. It was made just for you.”

Chicken Bones looked up at her dad again. He looked very serious. She looked down at the gingham fish and it did feel a little bit tingly and magical. Chicken Bones started to feel a little bit stronger and a little bit braver. She lay down and she felt more relaxed and sleepy. And she dozed off with Pamela on one side of her and Raggedy Ann on the other side and the horse under her head and her magic Fish cradled in her palm. She had happy dreams that night. She had many safe sweet sleeps. She held Fish every night. She forgot about being scared.

Chicken Bones held Fish for many years, until the gingham wore thin. The sponge stuffing got flat and a seam had to be stitched up again. One of the button eyes came loose and was reattached with some spare red thread.

In spite of its wear and tear, Chicken Bones is happy.

She feels the loving magic of Fish to this day.

©Conni Cartlidge, 2012

Ditch Rainbow

Cool white daisies

Pretty pink roses

Bold red lilies

Dancing yellow lady slippers

Swaying green grass

Flashy black-eyed susans

Timid blue bells

Prickly purple thistles

Gangs of violet clover.

My ditch is a wild prairie rainbow garden.

©Conni Cartlidge, 2012

The Sandbox

(In memory of Garth Foster and Cecil McDonald)

 New sandbox!   June 1993

The heavy red dump truck lumbered slowly passed our place, headed west down the back road. Some time later, it rolled back eastward and came to a stop in our driveway. It was the spring of 1993 and our third child had been born just weeks before.

The driver, old Mr. Foster, climbed down and asked my husband, Brent, “Where’s your sandbox?”

“Ummm, we don’t have one,” said Brent, standing in a clutter of building materials, toys, lawn chairs, weeds and a little bit of hardy lawn.

“Well every kid needs a sandbox,” he replied, and he got back into his truck and pulled away.

Now, we were used to Mr. Foster making his rounds of our rural neighbourhood; never nosy but always watchful. He’d let us know about the flooding situation, run-away dogs, parties at the bridge, the local weather. He was the unofficial guardian of the section in which we lived.

Discovery.

But we never knew about his humour or his heart.

He returned with his truck full of sand and asked, “Where should I dump this?”

“Uhhh, how about right there,” said Brent as he pointed to a spot smack dab in the middle of the yard.

So the dump truck was backed across the grass and the weeds, carefully steered between two scrub oaks, the box was tilted up and out poured a load of beautiful clean sand, just for our kids.

No charge. No choice. No questions asked.

And Mr. Foster said to my flabbergasted husband, “Tell your old man that I gave his grandkids this sandbox.” He laughed and strolled away and we knew we were involved in some sort of friendly, but lifelong, rivalry between the two men!

Brent quickly surrounded the pile with some old railway ties and unused lumber and the kids jumped right in! Castles, roads, moats, hills and valleys were formed. Miniature versions of Mr. Foster’s trucks hauled rocks and bugs. Sandy mud pies were decorated with dandelions and clover, and baked on a broken down old hotplate. Super heroes battled Barbie dolls. Gritty textures were explored in our toddler’s fingers and mouth. Solitary digging provided time for peaceful boredom and creativity.

Sittin' and thinkin'.

As the kids grew, I suggested we remove the sandbox. The wooden edgings had long since rotted away and the occasional lost toy surfaced from the depths. Weeds and ants had begun to take over and the only soul enjoying the sand was our dog Dilly, digging cool holes in it on hot summer days.

But our kids cried out, “No! Not the sandbox! You can’t get rid of the sandbox! It’s always been there! It’s our childhood!”

So the sandbox was left alone.

Shaking the sand out.

The old rivals have both passed on now.

Our sandbox is slowly disappearing too.

Gentle departures.

Loving memories of lives well lived.

©Conni Cartlidge, 2012

Driving Lessons

My first ride with Dad. 1957

My dad is sad. He has been told to surrender his license. Step on the brakes. Yield to younger folks. Reverse engines. Stop driving.

My dad is eighty-three. These are difficult directions for him to follow.

Here are driving lessons I learned from my dad.

Lesson 1: Safety & Security

When I was very small, I was allowed to ride in the front seat of the car, with my head cradled in Mom’s lap and my legs stretched all the way across to Dad’s lap, as we drove home on late Sunday nights after visiting with friends. Sometimes Mom would stroke my hair or Dad would hold my chilly feet. Being nestled between my parents felt like the safest place in the world to me and I would fall asleep happy. When we arrived home, I would pretend I was still asleep so that Dad would pick me up gently and carry me into the house and to my cozy bed.

Seatbelts? Not yet invented.

Lesson 2: Adventure

Every summer, my parents packed up the camping gear and took my sisters and me on a three-week holiday. Dad drove endless hours so that we could see Disneyland, cousins, Expo 67, grandparents, mountains, hillbillies, oceans, hippies, Green Gables, friends, North America. He drove in all weather and at all hours. He steered us onto sluggish ferries and into Los Angeles freeway chaos. We made it to the top of Pike’s Peak and to the edge of the Grand Canyon. With route maps folded and creased and highlighted, Mom navigated and Dad tried to find his way.

Fights? Of course.

Ready for a drive. 1963

Lesson 3: Cooperation & Consequences

During our three-week holidays, my sisters and I rode in the back seat together. We had books and dolls and games and open windows. We filled the floor with sleeping bags and pillows. We could sprawl out and relax. We could also argue. And argue. And argue. Dad would tell us to leave each other alone or he would put us out to walk. And I would continue to torment my big sisters with silly songs and sayings. I would turn the dolls’ heads inside out. I would whine about the heat. I would kick and squirm. Dad would give another warning. And I would ask how much further we were going and when would I get a turn to sit by the window. My sisters would get madder and madder and finally Dad would screech to a stop and put us out on the side of the road. We were in a scorched desert in Arizona. Or we were on the bald prairie of Saskatchewan. Or a bear-filled forest in British Columbia. And he would drive away. Three girls left. I would cry and my sisters would tell me to smarten up and together we would trudge down the gravel shoulder till Mom and Dad’s car was in sight, waiting patiently for its disgraced occupants. For a while, the ride would be quiet and I would think about my bad behaviour. Then I would fall asleep, knowing that Dad would keep driving in spite of us!

Effective discipline? Apparently.

Lesson 4: Defensive Driving

Dad taught me how to drive. He drove me around the peaceful hospital grounds where the speed limit was no more than ten miles per hour. Other vehicles were almost non-existent. There were two stop signs and a few slow, predictable pedestrians. I concentrated on turn signals and slow accelerations, knuckles white as I gripped the steering wheel. I got my license on the first try! So Dad let me take the car solo to drive a block away. I immediately sideswiped a guy and totaled his car. Dad comforted me and enrolled me in a defensive driving course. He continued to let me drive. And I never had another accident.

Sixteen year olds are ready for independence? Sometimes. With support.

Dad with his new Dodge Monaco. 1969

Lesson 5: Sharing

Dad shared his driving expertise with all of his daughters. He let them use his cars, even the sporty ’74 Charger! He taught several widows how to drive, left stranded when they lost their husbands. He picked up lonely hitchhikers. He drove the truck for the food bank. He delivered Meals on Wheels. He accepted backseat drivers. He rescued belligerent, embarrassed teenagers from wild parties. He walked to work, leaving the car for others. He transported his mother-in-law’s ashes across the country to rest beside her husband’s grave.

Generous? Yes.

And so it is sad for my Dad to stop driving. It is frustrating to stall. It is difficult to yield. But the driving lessons learned are not lost. I’ll take the wheel now.

Thanks Dad.

Father’s Day 2012






©Conni Cartlidge, 2012

A Circle of Grandfathers

I used to see a ring of rocks.
A big old bunch of boulders.
Some stepping stones perhaps.
But now
I see that
A circle of grandfathers have gathered in my creek.
They rolled in without a sound.
Unannounced.

They sit together quietly, inviting me to stop and rest.
Their strong backs hold me securely
As the water rushes past.

Tickled by slippery green algae
They remain solemn.
Scratched and dirtied by floating seeds and grey twigs
They are unconcerned.

A silent conference
Of wisdom
Respect
Gentle strength.

A safe circle of grandfathers
A calm small place
For me.
Now
I see.


(Thanks to Rob, Robyn, Anne and my students for helping me to learn a little about grandfathers and for opening my eyes to a different world view, one moment at a time.)


©Conni Cartlidge, 2012

Version 1/Version 2

“Sex-trade worker found in trash bag: police”

This was the headline on page four of the local newspaper. This was the description of the tragic discovery of the body of a twenty-five year old pregnant woman in Winnipeg. The article goes on to describe her (again) as a sex-trade worker involved in the drug trade, and that her lifestyle was “very prone to a lot of violent things happening.” At the end of the article, she was finally described as a daughter, mother and sister. Her family plans to hold a vigil for her this weekend. Her name was Carolyn.

So now I wonder…if I turned up dead, what would the paper say about me? There are two possible versions.

Version 1 (page 4)
“Mentally-ill addict found in trash bag: police”

The body of a woman, found in a garbage bag in Winnipeg on the weekend, was identified by police as a mentally-ill addict reported missing several months ago. The body of Conni Cartlidge, 55, had been in the back lane of an apartment building for a long period of time. Police have classified her death as a homicide. The woman was easily identified by her various tattoos and piercings. She was known to host out-of-control parties and to challenge authority whenever possible. She had several children by different fathers. At least two of her children no longer lived with her. It is likely that her risky behaviour led to her death.


Version 2 (front page)
“Loving wife and mother, and enthusiastic college instructor found dead after exhaustive search: police”
The body of Conni Cartlidge was discovered in Winnipeg after an extensive search by police, family and friends. Conni had been missing for several months. Her husband Brent is devastated by her death, but relieved that she has been found. Her three grown children have flown home to support each other and to continue to work to find her killer. Conni loved her family so very much, and enjoyed sharing stories about them with her college students. She was always happy to explain the significance of her special tattoos. She encouraged others to think creatively and critically, and to advocate for themselves. She especially enjoyed hosting large outdoor gatherings at her country home. Conni was indebted to the women of her local AA group for helping her to find sobriety and happiness in her life. Her family and the police are asking anyone with any information to please contact them immediately.

Every missing or murdered woman or child deserves a Version 2.






©Conni Cartlidge, 2012