Where You Come From

When my parents divorced – my mother who still hates an ex-husband in his grave for 12 years – wanted me to change my last name. I held on to my name when I got married. I was and remain a Walker. It shocks people, just a bit. Keeping your last name doesn’t seem to fit the mold of the conservative woman. People are surprised to hear that Mr. Spit and I don’t share a last name. I don’t make a huge issue about it, but I will correct people. I am, always was and always will be, a Walker. I am the last of the Walkers and in idle moments, I think about what this means. There is an Uncle (estranged) and I. We are the only ones with this name. In idle moments I think back to my childhood memories and the stories that form the touch points of my history and I think about what it means to be the last of anything.

I hold on to my last name, flying in the face of convention and making others uneasy because it is a touch point and a talisman – a marker of something that was greater and larger than just me.  I don’t completely know what it means to be a Walker – instead I fill out a large space with some small stories and recollections, scattered values given me by others. I do not have a common experience of being a Walker. The notion of my family, the people who gave me my last name and hold this last name with me are a bit alien to me – they speak not necessarily another language, but we never seem to speak the same language at the same time.

This last round of remembrance started simply enough – my favourite aunt sent me a photo of my father as a baby. Each time this happens I hold on to it, fiercely, adding it to the large space, seeing the emptiness chased out a bit more. Perhaps it would shock you but I have one photo of my dad and I, and only one. I have it because it escaped my mother’s notice by living at my God Mother’s house. She kept it at her house, possibly squirreled away and maybe just overlooked, but it remained out of reach until a few years ago when I got it.

So, there I sit, on my father’s knee, with a stupid red ribbon in my hair and wearing a navy blue dress. My father wears a grey sweater and a sort of smile, but I am grinning and my father’s eyes have the hint of a twinkle that still makes my heart ache – remembering that when he was a good father he was very, very good indeed.

The photo is tucked in a scrapbook, placed on a whole page of photo’s of me as a girl. To look at it you would not realize it is the only of it’s kind. It’s not an especially good photo, but it is a photo.

I thought of this photo when my aunt sent me my father’s baby photo. I looked at him and and I went and found a photo of Gabe and there was connection. I realized, just then, that I brought someone else into this space with me as well.

Along with the photos have come emails of memories – all 3 living siblings chiming in, remember when. They were and are remarkably honest about their childhoods, the very good and the very bad. It often co-existed in the same story. I don’t know the stories they are telling, not even to spark some recollection of a story I have heard. These stories are from so long ago that I have no frame of reference. I accept what I see and am told with open eyes, no lenses colouring the words.

Each story told me becomes part of something I tuck away. I read and become a bit more full. This thing that is who I am, this thing that I have brought with me, this name that I carry with me – this name. It means something. A bit more of something. I become a bit more Walker.

Last night I looked at the website, I traced my name back quite a ways. It has always been my mother’s family that could trace their name, but suddenly, I was connected on both sides.

Florence and Ray are the parent’s of Howard. Who is the brother of Debbie and David and Robin and Ken. Howard is the Father of Cheryl. Cheryl is the mother of Gabriel.

Grounded. Given roots and wings. And strangely, as I sat here typing this I found myself crying, just a bit, and the strange and still familiar sense of fitting in.

Posted in The language of families | 7 Comments

Hrmph

Dear Harper Collins:

About 14 years ago a Canadian program called How It’s Made ruined the last great secret of childhood for me – how they get the caramel in the Caramilk bar. The program carefully showed the molds and the entire process, and well, that was that. I realize that it wasn’t a great secret, but it was a mystery.

There aren’t many secrets in adulthood. It’s a feature of our digital age I agree, but also too a function of adulthood – the magic of childhood is plain gone. Impossible things are just impossible things, and not merely an extra step in a magical plan. There isn’t much mystery in adult life – I even know what Victoria’s Secret is (that no traditionally built woman can buy a bra there).

Three years ago, during one of the darkest times in our life, Mr. Spit found the British car program Top Gear. In the first episode I watched, James, Richard and Jeremy were racing motor homes. And crashing into each other, and really there was more crashing than racing, but that seems to be what happens with the three of them. That particular television bit was the first time I laughed since the death of my son. It was the first time that I thought there might be something to take enjoyment from, it was the first reminder that life is a thing to laugh at, at least sometimes.

I will always bear a debt of gratitude to Top Gear, for their silliness, their joix de vivre, the sheer bloody joy they take in cars. They take delight in silly little things, like The Stig. I know he’s a tame racing driver and he’s always introduced in a bit of an odd way, and I understood underneath the racing costume he was a real person.

I am not stupid, Harper Collins. I knew that The Stig was clearly an incredibly skilled driver and must have had considerable racing experience. Like many others I whiled away some time speculating about his real, non-stig identity.

I won’t have to do that any more. The Stig is a person and his memoirs come out in December, in defiance of his confidentiality clause, and everyone else’s. Everyone kept the secret but you and he. In fact, you went to high court to get permission to ruin the secret for everyone.

You got that permission today. Not only will the memoirs be published in time for Christmas, everyone now knows who The Stig is.

Thanks Harper Collins, thanks for that. In the words of BBC Series Producer Andy Willman thanks for ruining a great, harmless and fun secret. One of the last in adulthood. A secret that made me smile in hard times, whiled away some time, re-educated me about the simple magic we can make for ourselves when we agree to play along.

Some say Harper Collins will make a million off the book. All  we know is they’re jerks.

Posted in Uncategorized | 6 Comments

4

On Monday I went to put on a pair of pants because it was cold.

I didn’t have any pants in my closet, so I went digging in my winter clothes. I remembered that I had a pair of grey pants in the box, and last year they were much too small.

Guess what? They aren’t too small anymore!

They still aren’t wearable – now they are too big.

Which means that I owned no pants.

So, tonight, I bought 3 pairs of pants and a skirt.

Not one of which came from the plus side of the store. . .

Posted in Diet is the New Black | 19 Comments

The Lady Project

I can hear my mother’s voice in my head when I am about to do something unladylike. My mother is, of all things, a lady. I come from a long line of ladies. We are ladies, the women in my family.

But, when Debby asked me what the rules of being a lady are, I was struggling to codify them. Well, that’s not quite true. I can shoot out a bunch of overriding things. A lady doesn’t spit, swear, blow her nose or sniffle in public. A lady is always dressed neatly and properly for the occasion. A lady always makes guests to her home feel welcome, even if they are unexpected. A lady is always polite, she is never loud or boastful. A lady never speaks of sexual matters in mixed company. A lady is always aware of her behaviour and never seeks inappropriate attention from men. A lady stands up for the poor and abused.

But, that’s not so much a definition of a lady, as it is a bunch of rules, and a bunch of rules almost always have reasons to break those rules. I have broken every last one of them, and mostly for good reasons.

I’ve been thinking about the definition of a lady. I was particularly thinking about it as a ‘gentleman’ of my acquaintance walked out of the elevator before me, didn’t hold the door open for me and ran across the street, leaving me to try and navigate the 3 foot puddle in my 3 inch heels.

I’m curious. . .

What were you told? What weren’t you told? What do you wish you were told?

*Why yes, please use this as a jumping off point on your own blog. I’d like it to become part of a wider discussion.*

Posted in The Lady Project | 9 Comments

Monday Miscellany

  • Retreat was great. Did virtually no scrapbooking, a fair bit of knitting and a certain amount of drinking.
  • The drive home on Highway 2 was annoying as all heck. Why is it that someone driving a trailer thinks that they should be in the fast lane, when they are doing just 10 km over the speed limit? It’s called the fast lane for a reason . . .
  • Lost more weight. Bathing suit now too big as well.
  • I came home and helped Mr. Spit clean out the basement. I think I could become addicted to the feeling of purging stuff.
Posted in Salmagundi: A collection of various things | 7 Comments

Weekends are for Quotes

In politics . . . never retreat, never retract. . . never admit a mistake.

Napoleon.
(I was looking for a retreat type quote and this wasn’t what I had in mind, but I’ve always harboured a sneaking adoration for Napoleon.

Posted in Weekends are for Quotes | 1 Comment

Retreat

In case you were wondering what your luggage for a 2 day scrap booking retreat would be like. . .

Posted in Useful Information | 9 Comments

Thinking Woman

When I had coffee with one of my wise women last Friday, I commented that I’m learning to ask myself how I feel. I will see something, and my brain will begin to sound klaxons – whoop, whoop, this should hurt – and so it seems as if I feel the hurt, even though it doesn’t actually hurt.

To put it another way, it’s liking pulling off a band-aid, you flinch before hand, knowing it’s going to hurt, except it doesn’t. It’s painless.

I gave away my maternity clothes tonight. Lock, stock and 2 rubber maid totes full. I imagine I’ll offer the crib and mattress next. I offered the rocking chair on loan because it is a family piece. It’s not mine to give away, although heaven knows what anyone will do with it after Mr. Spit and I die.

And as I was hauling the totes upstairs, I kept asking myself, does this hurt? I was poking and prodding my psyche. I loaned out some clothes this time last year, and that was hard. Yet this time?

I cried a bit. I pulled out the same pieces, my favourite shirt, the pants and shirt I wore to the hospital and then home again. I leaned my forehead against the living room wall and my eyes filled up with tears.

I have taken the shirt I wore to the hospital and home out from the boxes. I will tuck it in my bottom drawer. I don’t need it and I cannot quite give it away. I cannot quite take this bit of cloth that is just a purple shirt and hand it away as if it is only a bit of cloth.

This time it feels more final. It has been almost a year since I was pregnant last. December will mark three years since Gabriel came and left us. We are not sure where we are on our fertility journey, but I don’t entirely know if it will involve maternity clothes. I suspect not.

And they are, well they are just clothes. They are no different than the clothes sitting in my office that are too large. They are extra, superfluous. They are going to a good home. When I think about it – when I get past the klaxons – the truth is this: I am tickled pink because Mel and I have very similar taste in clothing and I know that I am saving her a lot of money on clothes, and she will wear them and enjoy them. It will bring me joy to see her wearing them. I wish I could be there to watch her look through them, try them on.

I am learning the low level – the background noise of tragedy – it is always there. It does not change whether the clothes are in my basement or on someone’s body. Nothing changes what happened, and nothing changes how unfair it was, is, and always be. And yet, I’m not sad about this. I’m mostly just the same, wishing things could have been different, but knowing they aren’t. Slightly comforted by the fact that I can provide a good thing to someone else.

Posted in Baby Loss, Friendship, Infertility | 19 Comments

What Would Happen

My mother does not understand blogging, that much is clear. But as she was leaving, late this evening, and I mentioned that I was tired but I still didn’t have a blog written for today, she asked me what I was going to write about.

I have a few draft posts kicking around, I had a few random thoughts (and frankly, this post has saved you from reading my rant about gas stations that make you pay before you fuel up).

Anyway.

She told me it wouldn’t be the end of the world if I didn’t post.

She doesn’t understand much about the need to blog – and my need at least- to read blogs each day.

Thank you for your kind words yesterday. It was a tumultuous day indeed.

Posted in Feats of Wonder | 5 Comments

Used to Be

I spent Sunday evening with Allan and Emma and I wasn’t sure how it would feel, I was sad driving down because she wouldn’t be in Calgary and there would be no dinner, no visit. Nothing. And yet, at dinner, Anna was there. She was there in the look in Emma’s eyes, she was there when we talked about her favourite colours and her sparkly blue shirt and she was there when we remembered. She was not quite out of the room and not quite in it. I missed her and yet it was not quite possible to miss her – how can you miss what is not quite absent, is just gone? I had expected used to be, and found simply what was.

On Friday night, I was blessed with the company of a very wise woman. I had questions for her, and we dispensed with those fairly simply, and then we just talked and laughed and we were a bit sad together. She reminded me of infinite posisblities, of what could be, what might be and what should be.

So, with those things in my head, I walked into an office tower here in Calgary, to start 2 days of meetings and I saw – what do you call an ex friend? What do you call somene who was once your best friend and now is a perfect stranger? What do you call someone when you knew more about him than anything and now you don’t know the name of his latest child? What do you call that? How do you reconcile?

Every so often someone asks me if we patched things up. For a long time I didn’t know what to say, and now I say this:

He walked me down the aisle at my wedding  and now we stand in an elevator – just the 2 of us, and we do not say a word. We walk into an office and it is as if we do not know each other at all. There were too many words and there are not enough words.

And I don’t have anything to say. I have made, not my peace but reconciliation with the fact that there is no reconciliation. At least, most of the time. Yesterday? What used to be caught up with me anyway.

Posted in Anna, Friendship | 7 Comments