MEMORY LANE ~ Through the Eyes of a Child ~ November 30, 2011 by Lorraine Gauthier
My Sister’s Voice
As children, with the purest of hearts we see life with wonder. We learn to walk by crawling, standing, and falling…so similar to life as an adult. We educate ourselves by seeing, hearing and copying those we want to be like…a parent, an older sibling, or a friend.
We all started off as children and somewhere in us, we still have the heart of that young child. I know I still do. As an innocent child, I usually chose to do things for the absolute right reason.
At age two, I chose to cut off my hair to look like a boy. The reason…my dad had ‘hoped’ I was a boy because he wanted another son after my brother and three sisters were born. I loved him and wanted to please him. I wanted to give him what I ‘thought’ was a boy, as if cutting off my hair, would do the trick.
Years later, we had another girl born into our family. Now there were five girls. We had a small house and had to learn how to share. We were lucky to get a new chest of drawers. This was very exciting to me because now we could each have our own drawer for our personal belongings. However, I was worried that we, as sisters, wouldn’t recognize our own drawer. I decided to engrave our names on each drawer so that my sisters knew which one was theirs. Needless to say, this was not well received. My dad was furious. I was punished because I had damaged the new chest of drawers.
How many times in life, even as an adult, do we have perfectly good intentions, with the purest of hearts, yet it is received differently? I am grateful that throughout our lives we can still have the heart of a child.
Over the years, this child’s heart will feel both joy and pain. It truly becomes our guide to how we perceive things as an adult. Hopefully, we can continue to see the beauty in all things like we did as an innocent child!
Thank you Lorraine!
Lorraine holds a B.A. with a major in Psychology from the University of Winnipeg. She is a member of Advocis and a Life member of Million Dollar Round Table. Lorraine lives in Winnipeg, Manitoba with her husband Barry. She works full-time as an Advisor at Sun Life Financial.
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IF I HAD A HAMMER ~ November 25, 2011 by Dolores Ayotte
MEMORY LANE
If I had a hammer, I’d hammer in the morrrrning, I’d hammer in the eeevening……don’t you just love that song? I hope you remember it. You might, if you were born in my era.
One morning as I was walking with my girlfriends, we started to discuss how sentimental we’ve all become. As we age, we’ve discovered that keepsakes actually matter more to us than they did in our youth.
One friend was explaining this fact by sharing a story with us. She said she went through a lot of work and effort to make small quilts that she gave as presents to her children or grandchildren. After they were used for their initial purpose and as the years went by, they were eventually used in some other constructive way. The other way she noticed was that they ended up at the bottom of the dog kennel. By the pained expression on her face, it seemed to me that she would prefer if her children were more sentimental. She had hoped they would cherish these homemade quilts in much the same way they were created.
I also shared a story with my friends about my hammer. In this picture, my hammer is the first on one the left. Years ago when I was a preschooler and many years after that, I used to work in the garage with my Dad. He was a self-taught carpenter as well as a general handy man. I loved to spend time with him in whatever way possible. At that time, he gave me a small hammer to call my own. Over the years, I didn’t think too much about this hammer but when I got married and left home, my Dad gave it to me.
A couple of months ago, one of my granddaughters phoned and asked if she could spend the day with us. Her dad was on the way out and he promptly dropped her off at our house. Grandpa was busy hanging pictures using my trusty hammer so I asked our granddaughter to hand the hammer to grandpa when he needed it. I then explained to my six-year-old granddaughter that I used this very hammer when I was about her age. She looked at me with that quizzical look of hers and asked “really”. I’m sure she wondered if I was ever really that young.
I proceeded to tell her how precious this hammer was to me because it was a gift from my father and one day I would love to give it to her but I wanted to wait until she could realize the importance of it. I want to pass my hammer along, but as simple and as old as this gift may be, I want her to keep it and do the same. Now isn’t that silly? Well not “really”, at least not to me. My hammer signifies a lovely memory and a cherished part of my life. The words that I write have much the same meaning. My words are my hammer. It’s why I write. I want my words passed along down the line to all who are willing to read them. I have a message. My message means an awful lot to me. Does yours? If so, please join me in song and pass your hammer along.
Previously posted on twgauthors.blogspot.com April 26, 2010
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MEMORY LANE ~ YOU ARE NOT BROKEN ~ November 14, 2011 Andrea Cockerill
A WOMAN’S VOICE – My Daughter’s Voice 
Although the memory of our first breath when we entered this world is beyond our recollection, its innocence and wonder are no less profound. You just have to look at your own or any newborn child to see the vulnerability and utter newness of when a new soul begins its journey into the experience of being a human being. When babies grow into toddlers, you can see the fearlessness of a child’s innate curiosity and how it propels them into following any and all of their hearts desires, which on many occasions goes against that of their mothers!
Imagine living this way as an adult, following your heart’s desires with wild abandon. At some point in our childhood we go from living fearlessly, to viewing the world as unsafe. We start to realize that not all is right with the world and we internalize it as meaning that all is not right with us. At a deep level we turn from the experience of the newborn, a being of pure perfection, to feeling as if we are someone who is broken and in need of fixing. How painful it is to see ourselves in this light. We then start the process of seeing ourselves as possessing much darker traits.
Many people may not even realize that they actually think this way because it goes beyond the awareness stage. It is at a subconscious level as evidenced by the words we say to ourselves about our lives. How many times have we said, if such and such happens, then I will feel good, be happy, find joy, be worthy of love, etc.? This kind of thinking implies that at the core of our being, something is broken. We then project this brokenness on the surface areas of our lives, our job, our bodies, our families, our communities and the list goes on. Isn’t easier to try to fix that, which is outer, than to go deep within ourselves and feel the emotion of brokenness, vulnerability and just plain not measuring up?
In my opinion, we spend so much time protecting ourselves and our spirit, trying to fix that which is truly not broken. Yes…you are not broken. There is nothing to fix. The centre of your being is pure perfection and light. It is the part of you that always was and always will be. You can’t lose it, damage it, abandon it, or escape the love that resides in you. You may have developed coping mechanisms along the way to protect yourself that have created layers similar to that of an onion. With compassion and faith, each of these layers can be carefully peeled away to reveal the wonder and innocence you came with when you entered into this world as pure perfection itself.
When you learn to view yourself as whole, failure won’t have such a high price tag. It won’t run so deep and healing won’t take so long after you stumble and fall. Highs and lows would be just a part of life because the thread running through life’s challenges would originate from a feeling of innate wholeness and love. I pray for this for myself and for all women, and I pray each one of us experiences the joy of living with wild abandon like that of an innocent child.
When I was young, I was innocent and saw the world as limitless. Now that I am older, I may see the limits of this world, but my faith sees the limitlessness of God. It is this faith that allows me to spread my wings and take a chance on life.
Thank you Andrea!
Andrea lives in Winnipeg with her husband Jeremy and is the mother of four children. She holds a Bachelor of Arts Degree with a major in Psychology as well as a Bachelor of Social work from the University of Manitoba.
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MEMORY LANE ~ What The Walls Would Say ~ November 3, 2011 by Kelly Quinn
Call me crazy, but I have a ‘thing’ for old houses. I have lost count of the number of times my daughter and I have been driving somewhere and I have heard “Aw Mum!” as she caught sight of a tear on my cheek as we passed an abandoned house, left derelict and in ruins.
I don’t know when my love affair with old houses started. I am reasonably sure I haven’t always felt this way. But I believe I have become more affected by the sight of them since my Grandparent’s house was knocked down by the new owners, who are intending to one day build units on the land.
And affect me they do. I feel pain. I cry. And I can’t help but think of the stories the houses could tell – if only they could talk.
The houses I am talking about are the ones that were built long before ‘estates’ and mass-produced dwellings. These houses, I can reasonably assume, began life as someone’s dream home. Maybe a young couple, newly married, and alive with hope for the future created their vision and watched it grow into physical being. Perhaps a young man, making his mark on the world and setting himself up for the possibilities of a family (“One day….”), built a modest house in which he could live a quiet and peaceful life. Or maybe a widow decided to create a new life for herself after losing her husband of 20 years.
Think of the celebrations for birthdays, weddings, anniversaries, Christmases, New Years (or just when the family were all together again after so long apart). The tragedy of losing loved ones, losing jobs, or dealing with family dysfunction. Parents alone after the last of their children left home. The echo of children’s laughter. The tears of pain and joy that have soaked into the floor. Harsh words spoken in haste. The devastation of a family torn apart by hate. Hope. Fear. The possibilities of what the walls could tell you are endless.
My Grandparent’s house saw many of these things. Children, grandchildren, weddings, funerals, laughter, tears. Even death and loneliness. Every room had it’s fair share of the action. If the family were to get together and reminisce about ‘old times’ I could almost guarantee every one of us would tell a story that took place in a different part of the house or yard. These are the stories of our lives and that house was the glue that held us all together.
For me the house was a safe-haven. A place of unconditional love and happiness. A place where I was free to be a child and enjoy the antics of my Grandfather (what a character he was!). It is where I learnt the value of a hard day’s work, and the importance of communication in a relationship. But most of all the house, for me, was a symbol of hope. Hope for how my life might be one day – full of love, patience, acceptance and compassion. I still have this hope.
So, why this trip down memory lane? Well today I had an appointment, and the drive took me past a number of old houses. One of which was so similar to my Grandparent’s home that it took my mind straight back to my younger years. And I couldn’t help but wonder what this old house would say – if only it could talk.
Thank you Kelly for sharing about your love for old houses with us. You are so right.
I can’t even imagine what the walls would say if they could actually talk.
Picture of house is from the John Oxley Library, State Library of Queensland – Neg: 198358
INSPIRATIONAL POEMS ~ The Old Farmhouse ~ August 31, 2011 by Shirley Sarafinchan
My Sister’s Voice
This poem was originally written on April 30th, 1981 about an old farmhouse that was once home to a family but some time later I associated it with abused women. In essence, it reminded me of women who strive so very hard to make homes for their families. No matter how hard they try, they are worn down and battered. Finally they have the opportunity and the strength to stand up for their rights and to free themselves from their bondage to at last find the peace and solace that they so richly deserve. The old farmhouse is a symbol of a refuge for abused women.
THE OLD FARMHOUSE
Amid the fields it stands so alone, so serene, so peaceful, yet filled with an emptiness all its own, this old farmhouse that was once called home.
Its shingles torn and tattered, windows scarce of glass, doors hanging by a single hinge alas this old farmhouse so battered.
What secrets dare to lie within its walls, love, laughter, fun and joy, echoes of little children running down the halls, tears, sorrow and pain for loved ones lost.
Music must have filled the nights with sounds of crickets and birds in flight, the sweet scent of the prairie harvest and wild flowers a pleasant sight.
The tantalizing aroma of freshly baked bread reaching every corner of the old farmhouse and early morning sunrises filling each room full of light, the warmth from the wood stove soon to spread.
Memories fill this old farmhouse, nothing more is really left but, it has served its purpose in this life and now alone, it can be at rest.
Thank you Shirley.
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FOR BETTER OR FOR WORSE ~ Silence Is Okay ~ August 25, 2011 by Dolores Ayotte
I married my high school sweetheart. No, we weren’t the prom king and queen. As a matter of fact, he actually got chosen and I didn’t. He was so gallant that he refused this honor because he didn’t want someone else by his side to share in this teenage moment.
It’s seems like a lifetime ago that we were playing the dating game in our eleventh grade classroom. My high school sweetheart grabbed my attention right at the onset. Boy…he was one quiet guy and I sure made up for his silence.
Now, over forty years later, he is a little more talkative and I am a lot less. Although, I still can outdo my husband, I have nowhere near as much to say. I find that we have long moments of silence in our home and it’s not one bit awkward. We’ve discovered that we can still be in each other’s company and provide a sense of comfort with silence. I like it and so does he. The pressure to fill the silence has been removed a long time ago as we embrace each other in this wonderful and pleasant way.
Yes…silence is okay. In fact, in most instances I have come to cherish it and my husband is still gallant enough to “not” admit this truth. 
I may not have been chosen to be the prom queen but I’ve pretty well been treated like one ever since. 42 years and hoping for more! Happy Anniversary Fred!
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QUOTES AND ANECDOTES
“Harmony is one phase of the great law whose spiritual expression is love.” (James Allen)
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THE COOKIE JAR –October 4, 2010 by Rosewood Jannie
MEMORY LANE
I grew up in the 50′s..
It was a big old house that used to be a dance hall. I suspect it was a lively place during prohibition. My father worked on it to make it the home I remember. Nothing fancy..but homey and practical. Back off the road a half mile..it was quiet and wonderful. It was a house of sameness. My dad went to work..carrying the same black lunch box with the same tuna sandwich..wearing a plaid shirt and khaki pants that my mom dried on pants stretchers..When he came home..he always had a Tootsie Pop in his pocket for me..Always the same..
My mom cooked and cleaned and ironed..
She washed clothes in the same wringer washer..always starting with the white clothes..working her way down to the dark clothes. We hung the “good clothes” on the clothes lines and the wash rags on the barbed wire that corralled the cows. It hadn’t occurred to me to until yesterday..we never called them wash clothes..I guess because they really were rags, we’d had them so long.
The living room was big and open. We had Cellotex on the upper part of the walls and paneling on the bottom. As a teenager..I would doodle in the Cellotex with my fingernails as I talked on the phone….much to my father’s dismay.
There was a Burgundy couch..with a chenille fabric on it. I can still feel it. The pattern shifted under my fingers…stiff and prickly..There were the same …end tables…two shelves..mahogany in color all the years I lived there…
The same picture..a bird picture…white Herons..with little mirrors all around the edge.
The floor was green…green plumbs with touches of pink. I remember sitting on my bottom..scooting along with wax and cloths to polish it…
Our kitchen was yellow…always yellow. We had a Yellow cracked ice..Formica table..with yellow Naugahyde chairs with a swirly black pattern in them. In the north corner of the room…stood the Dish cupboard. It was always called The Dish Cupboard..and always held all our dishes. Multi-colored Fiestaware. How funny..now it’s trendy and expensive..to us..they were just the dishes..
On the dish cupboard..stood one of the most revered items of my childhood. The Cookie Jar. It was white satin glass. The lid had a black stripe around it..and so did the jar. There were little peachy flowers and green leaves painted on the side of the jar. I should say..the remnants of painted flowers. After years of washings..they had begun to fade..
It had been a gift to my parents when they got married. I wasn’t told to be careful with it..I didn’t have to be told. Everything my parents had..was purchased with hard work and cared for because we knew things couldn’t be easily replaced.
When I was old enough to retrieve a cookie on my own..I lifted the lid carefully and sat it down on the dish cupboard. I’d run my hand down into the jar…get my cookie and with the uttermost care…gently replace the lid.
In this home of sameness…the cookie jar sat on the right side of the dish cupboard..that sat in the northeast corner of the kitchen..for 31 years..
Day in day out…the sameness was peaceful and comforting.
In 1972…the peace and the sameness of my birthplace..had become a place of strife for my parents. The land around them was being sold for development and they were being landlocked by the developers. My mom reminded me of a pioneer woman. Fighting daily for her rights..not allowing them to block the road.
After month of this..the developer approached my parents with an offer to buy them out. The home..with it’s peaceful sameness..would never be the same. So they sold.
All the things that had been in the same place..were cast out..My parents felt as if they were rich, after struggling all those years. New furniture..new towels..new wash clothes..new lamps..new couch..a new life..
The only piece of furniture that made it to the new house…was the dish cupboard.
As they were settling in..I was putting the dishes into the dish cupboard. Unwrapped the plates…the cups…the Bauer bowls…I felt a comfort in the sameness of this small thing. Emptied box after box. As I stood back to look at my handy work..I realized the Cookie Jar was not in its usual place. I looked around for it…asked my mom.
“Oh..that old thing…I got a new one..its the red strawberry on the kitchen counter” she said.
I asked..”Where’s the one I grew up with?”
“We left that in the old house” she said casually, continuing to unpack.
If ever I felt sick and bewildered at something my mom did..this was it. I threw my stuff into my car and drove back to the old house.
I hadn’t been there in days..When I’d left..it was orderly and neat. My dad was sure..since it was such a wonderful historic old place..the developer would build around it.
When I walked up..my heart sank. The vandals had broken in. The windows were smashed..the ceilings were hanging down in many places..The beautiful woodwork my dad had made with his own hands..was smashed and ruined..
In the rubble that had been my home…I looked frantically for the Cookie Jar. Under all the mess that had been the happy kitchen where I spent my childhood..sitting at the table..watching the cows in the pasture right outside the kitchen window…I pawed frantically…tossing aside broken drawers ..parts of the counter, all the while trying not to get cut on the glass strewn about the room.
I never saw the cookie jar..or pieces of it. I looked for hours..I gave up and never mentioned it to my mom.
It was so hard not to be upset with at her. After all those years… How could she not know that all of us loved that jar?
Fast forward…
My mom is now in a nursing home. I live in the little house that was hers..giving my larger house to my daughter and her family.
In the corner of my dining room..is my most prized possession. The dish cupboard. It holds all my dishes…just as it held my mothers..The platters and big bowls on the bottom..the plates and cups on the upper shelves.
There’s sameness to it..a comfort. My grandmother had her dishes in it…my mother had hers in it..and I have followed. Still…there was always something missing. When I look at it..in my minds eye..I could see the white satin jar..with the black stripes and faded peachy flowers..
Today….after 38 years…they were reunited. The Dish Cupboard…with it’s comforting sameness…and on the right corner…sits a white satin Cookie jar..with it’s faded flowers and little black stripes..
On a whim…after searching..and never seeing the cookie jar..I typed in Satin jar on Ebay…Half way down the page…up pops…the Cookie Jar. I sat back in my desk chair..almost afraid to breathe..like it would disappear. I bid on it…and today..wrapped like the Holy Grail…it arrived. I cried as I unwrapped it.
It was in the Estate sale of a couple my parents age…Someone in their family had let it go. While I’m sad they didn’t love it..like I loved ours..This one will always be on the right corner of the dish cupboard…for as long as I live.. 
Oh my, what a lovely trip down memory lane. I am so grateful you shared it with us and I am very happy you found such a treasure (The Cookie Jar) to put on top of your beautiful dish cupboard.
MEMORY LANE ~ REMEMBERING WHEN… ~ September 5, 2011by Linda Briscoe
My Sister’s Voice
When I was a child we walked to school on the very first day! Brand new outfit and school bag, packed with crayons and all new supplies.
I walked and walked for what seemed like forever, happy to finally be at school, only to realize that there would be the same walk home at lunch, then back to school and home again!
The days would be glorious in the fall, still warm enough for just a sweater. The leaves would start to fall to the ground and the winds would pick up.
Before I knew it, the cold would be in the not too distant future. It was time to bundle up to make the walk to school as bearable as possible. Now, in the bitterness of winter, lunch bag packed, off to school I went. Bundled tightly, with my scarf around my forehead and neck, I braved the long walk to school.
Oh…it could get bitterly cold, so cold as the wind blew through my not so warm coat and the well worn boots which had known other winters. Is this cold winter ever going to pass?
Then it changed. The days started getting longer, the sun started getting stronger, and I was very excited as I could spot the first patch of pavement. The ditches were so inviting filled with melting ice and water. Trusting to step on the now thin ice and not sink…only to find a boot full of water was merely a fine line away…just one more step and a little more pressure before the ice cracked and I could feel the SPLOOSH as the cold water seeped into my boots. A young child and a ditch full of water are like two magnets being drawn to each other. 
On that walk home from school, the snow was only going to bring the worst of spring, with its dirty snow banks and slippery sidewalks after a cold night. Getting splashed by a passing car was the norm as I surged forward on my long walk home.
Try as I might to keep my spring coat clean and the runners that I changed into after school as I rid myself of my heavy rubber boots was an impossible feat.
Then finally, the lovely spring weather came and stayed like the pavement rid of ice and snow for the season. Now, with a skipping rope in hand, it was like heaven. All the things I loved most, fresh air, rope to jump, light clothing, and the walk to school was almost effortless. 
Almost a year had passed since the first day of school and it made me so aware of the changing seasons. What was it like for you?
Thank you Linda!
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QUOTES AND ANECDOTES
“Plodding wins the race.” (Aesop)
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