The collection of ‘stuff’ has been an ongoing theme in my life, and it all started with my mother. A baby born at the end of the Great Depression, Mom was a collector of everything. Born into an extremely poor rural French Catholic family, she had to leave home at age 15 to get a job and to make a way for herself in the world. Education was (and is) a luxury that the poor could simply not afford. Continue reading “The Unbearable Heaviness of ‘Stuff’”
In my life, I have been a volunteer on a great number of occasions. Volunteering is either something you ‘get’ or you do not. Continue reading “Remembering to Thank the Volunteers”
When my kids were little, I used to have to label all the clothing they wore to daycare. Continue reading “Clothing Labels and Parenthood”
“Mom, did you go down those stairs?” my sister demands one day, as she notices some object that Mom could only have found in the basement.
“I was very careful!” my mother protests. “I held the railing the whole way down and I took it one step at a time.”
“What if you had taken a fall, Mom? I suppose you did this after the caregiver left?” My sister is upset and exasperated. Continue reading “Good Cop, Bad Cop”
They live next door to one another.
They are both in diapers; the pull-on kind. Their families help them practice using the toilet: sometimes they get there on time; usually they don’t. Neither one makes it through the night without an accident: every morning, the family washer is filled with bedding and clothing that was soiled in the night. Continue reading “Neighbours”