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