Empty Nest

Hey there! It has been a while, hasn't it?

I returned home on Saturday after helping my son, L, move to Toronto. We stopped in Eastern Ontario for a few days to visit family and friends. It was so good to see everyone -- or almost everyone, but I digress.

We left at 4:15 am on the 30th and arrived in Cornwall at about 6:30 pm. It was a long though surprisingly agreeable drive. I'd been afraid of driving through Montreal -- anyone who has been through there will know why. Think bumper cars on speed with construction and off-ramp vagaries thrown in. It turned out to be simpler than I'd remembered and I gained a new appreciation of drivers who leave the passing lane for people passing. Imagine!

We spent a day with my Mom and then we were off to Ottawa to meet up with friends. I, of course, remembered none of the reasons why I'd wanted to move from there in the first place as I sat in the park with a good friend, inhaling the scent of mowed grass and listening to the breeze in the leaves.

Although we moved almost eight years ago, most of the restaurants were the same. Certainly, the buildings hadn't changed. It was just how I envisioned it. And I got nostalgic.

The next morning, we set out on the final leg of our journey to Toronto arriving there mid-afternoon.

L's apartment was a bit of an oddity. A basement apartment in Little Portugal with a separate entrance that was built for gnomes. The interior floor was almost a foot lower than the exterior walk so bending was required to turn the door knob. Low ceilings, uneven floors and some missing construction (like rods in the sole closet) greeted us not too happily.

The bachelor apartment had been cleaned so the kitchen and bathroom were spotless, but the floor was a disaster, covered with fine dust from sanding the walls. Three washes later, it's still not great. The screen and filter over the stove required two-and-a-half days of scrubbing to rid them of years of grease build-up and the washer smelled of old water. Only one window had a screen and none of them had been cleaned in some time. I screamed as an arachnid resembling a dock spider scuttled past.

That first night was dismal.

Sears had delivered two mattresses instead of a mattress and box spring combo, most of the furniture needed assembly, and we couldn't unpack clothes due to the missing closet rods. And, despite paying $100 for a five-block delivery, the bed frame had not arrived. We ended up walking in the rain to fetch it.

After at least an hour on the phone with Sears, trying to get their mistake straightened out, I wanted to go to a hotel and tackle the mess in the morning. L talked me out of it. He came up with the brilliant idea to keep one mattress in its bag and to lay the other on top of it to create a temporary bed.

I was delighted to have washed the bedsheets at home so we could make the bed and have something clean and fresh to sleep on.

L was feeling anxious about his move. His eyes were larger than usual, his mouth tight. Was this going to work out all right? God, how I wanted to hug him to me and encourage him to move back home, but I didn't. I told him this was his time to try it out, to follow his dream, to be in the city for film. I hope I sounded sincere. The desire to be selfish and supportive were definitely crashing together in my brain.

The next morning we started work early and by the end of the day had a rather funky looking bachelor pad to our credit. It's amazing how furniture placement changes the look of a place.

L had a job within 24 hours of arrival. He is back to working at Cora's Restaurant after the recommendation of a former co-worker who had moved to TO ahead of him. He is happy to be able to work three days a week only to cover bills, etc, while giving him time for his writing. Gotta love the service industry, so much more lucrative than retail.

On Friday, we hit a nearby WalMart and No Frills to buy the last of the essentials (like an ironing board and coasters) and groceries.

That night we played cards something that we usually do with much hilarity but I was somber knowing in the morning I'd be leaving my baby behind. L admonished me to relish my new, independent life which made me snappier than I wanted to be. Of course, I will enjoy it. I just have to get through the grieving part first. What kind of a mom would I be if I was happy to get rid of you, I asked him. I think he got it then.

I welled up a couple of times that night and in the morning, but am proud to report that I didn't lose it, didn't make him feel bad for his decision to move.

And then, with a final hug, I was on my way to drop off the minivan and grab a cab to the Toronto Island Airport.

With the exception of some knee-weakening turbulence over Ottawa, the trip was fine and dear friend N picked my up at the airport so I wouldn't feel alone.

My daughter, H, is staying over most of this week in part to babysit me, in part because she's picked up a second job which is easier to access from my place than hers. After leaving for work this morning, she sent me a text saying that she'd forgotten how nice it is to wake up and find me there.

So, although I am missing my son and there is a lump in my throat and my eyes are  moist yet again, it seems that the empty nest mightn't be so empty after all.

They do come back, don't they?

C

Installment VI

While I was waiting for the boy's text message this afternoon, I had a call from The Brick. We'd been to a local store and ordered some furniture for him to be delivered to his apartment in TO.

Should have been simple, but when I hadn't heard from the TO store to arrange the delivery, I called the number the sales clerk here had given me.

It was indeed a number for a Brick outlet, but not the right one. They had no record of the order.

I called my sales clerk back. Turns out she hadn't faxed the order in properly.

The Toronto store and the Halifax store called me later to let me know that the sales clerk had forgotten to have me sign the invoice and asked me to go in.

Now, those three or four loyal readers will know that I no longer have a car. (Long story.) It would take me over an hour to travel to the store by bus. My son had a brainwave. Let's go to Kinkos and fax it over.

Great idea, son. Let's go.

We did. We got the confirmation of successful delivery. We paid. We walked back home.

The next day, I get another call from the Toronto office. They don't have the signed invoice. The Halifax store claims they didn't receive it.

I shlep back to Kinkos, refax, reconfirm, repay. I call the store to ensure they have received it. They have so I leave.

This afternoon I get a call from the Toronto store. Where's the signed invoice? the woman asks.

At the Halifax store I say aloud. This is not what I was saying with my inside voice.

Nope, she tells me. Hali says they don't have it.

They do, I insist. Please call them back.

She does. They do indeed have the invoice. The TO sales clerk explodes. My god, she says. How slow can they be there in Halifax? How long does it take to send a fax?

Welcome to my world, I want to say, but I don't. I've become so used to crappy service since moving here that I barely notice it anymore. The high blood pressure and spewing of vitriol wasn't worth it.

I'm really sorry for bothering you, she says. Delivery has been arranged with the landlady. Everything is right in the world.

Back to real time, I have just checked the virtual flight view monitor on the Halifax International Airport's website and my son's plane is now over Bangor, Maine.

He'll be home by midnight and then the real countdown begins.

Eight days till the move.

He won't know if he's made it into the film centre for two weeks.

Keep sending those good vibes, gentle readers.

And thank you.

Colleen

Installment V

I finally broke down and texted the kid.

Turns out he got lost somewhere out in Greek Town and had a long hike back to where he needed to be.

I've just gotten off the phone with him. He is already at Porter Air's lovely airport on Toronto Island for his flight home, proud of his budgeting for meals and transportation and tired.

He thinks the interview went well although can now barely remember what was asked or said. He does remember that at least two of the panel were impressed with the quality of his script given how little training he has. He was also asked if his script was made into a movie which director would he chose to direct it. He said Mike Nichols.

Anyway, he's checking in, going through security and calling me back.

He'll be home about 11 Atlantic Time.

And I have a going away party to organize.

Colleen

Installment IV

I'm sitting at the restaurant that my son worked at until last week, using my blackberry to enter thism

I'm waiting.

I hate waiting. I do it poorly.

I'm waiting for my son's ex-boss to arrive so we can discuss his going-away party.

I'm also standing by to get a text message from junior to let me know that he's out of his interview so I can call him.

My legs are twitching. My hair is a ball of frizz from running my fingers through it. Hair product can only do so much. I'm not drinking decaf. That is a mistake.

Could his interview have run one hour long?

I'll let you know.

Colleen

Installment III

It's 7:20.

That's 6:20 in Toronto. Too early to send a morning greeting. And I probably shouldn't do that anyway.

I hop out of bed, not quite remembering the list of things I have to do today.

I'm alone. I think about this, feeling the quality of the apartment's stillness. Even though I often wake alone on the days that my son leaves early for work, today's solitude is different. I have to get used to this.

Get laundry started. I make a mental tick against that chore as I shove dirty socks and towels into the washing machine.

I had coffee with a friend a couple of days ago. She's another single mom. When our kid's leave, it's different for us, I told her. Us, as opposed to them -- married parents.

She nodded. They're not just our kids, they become our social lives too.

I knew she'd understand.

This feels like a divorce.

I have to shower now and get on with my day.

There is a lump in my throat.

Colleen

Installment II

My son has been to see the apartment he rented over the Internet. It's nice and in a nice neighbourhood. Still needs cleaning and painting and the ceilings are ridiculously low, but the first two things will be done before he moves and the latter he can live with. Good thing we aren't a tall family.

The goodnight text went like this:

Me: Night
Him: Night
Me: Are you out?
Him: No
Me: Hope you're not too bummed (about not being able to connect with friends) and you have a good night's sleep
Him: Oh, I'm fine! No biggie. Night!
Me: Do you want me to call you in the morning or do you want to keep to yourself?
Him: I'll keep to myself.
Me: K. Text me when you're done (the interview) and I'll call then. Good luck. Not that you need it. They'll love you. All my friends on Facebook are sending you good vibes!
Him: Thanks Mom! Will do.
Me. Night. I love you.
Him: Love you too.

My Son and the CFC

Live blogging, eh Becca? Here's the first installment.

I was up this morning at 4 to bid my son adieu. He has made it to the interview round of the admissions process to the Canadian Film Centre. He has applied for the screenwriting program.

He had to submit an original, full-length screenplay, two letters of recommendation and some other information to make it this far. Being shortlisted is such a big deal.

The CFC was established by Governor-General Award recipient and Academy Award-nominated filmmaker Norman Jewison. It is located in Toronto in what I believe is Jewison's former home and lays claim to having "trained an incredibly disproportionate pool of industry leaders whose enormous impact on Canada’s contemporary media environment is immeasurable."

The school foots the bill to fly the short-listed, out-of-town applicants to TO and puts them up at a bed and breakfast in The Annex, a trendy area of the city between Yonge Street and Little Italy.

I am nearly sick-to-my-stomach very excited for my son. Attending this school doesn't guarantee success. No school can do that. But it does provide lots of opportunity to learn your craft and make industry contacts.

My feelings, as usual, are more complex than this.

I am also rather annoyed because, having just come from his bathroom, I can report that he didn't bring his shaving stuff. I mean why shave just because you have what is the single most important interview of your life up till now? Just because you're more than a little hirsute? Just because I said that you should?

And his attire? Well, rather than wear anything nice, he is set on wearing second-hand clothes that he purchased two weeks ago. A rather hideous orange plaid shirt and a kelly-green and brown striped pullover.

"Don't worry. It's really casual," he tells me.


Sometimes the kid makes me nuts.

And I can't believe I just wrote that. I sound like my mother. ARGHHHHHHH!

Sigh.


So, here I sit fretting and wondering and blowing my diet because this is the first night he is away and in 10 days, I'm going to have to get used to this really fast and I'm not ready. Not ready. Not ready at all.

I've eaten four chocolate bars and half a bag of chips. I've eaten potato skins.

Seven months of dieting and a loss of 55 pounds and I've eaten all that crap.

I'm thinking of selling everything, getting rid of the apartment and going to volunteer in Africa.

Sound like a plan?

Colleen

Oh, my mother!

In response to a previous post, blogging buddy Cheryl suggested I have a look at ancestry.ca to find out about my ancestors which I have done. It's rather addicting to say the least. Hours slip by as minutes.

I've managed to add many names to the little squares in my family tree. The one that has had the biggest impact on me to date was my paternal grandfather. His name was Emile. I'd never known that.

My father was born in 1917 and was raised by a single mom and her parents on a farm in northern Ontario. The story goes that grandmother married grandfather against family wishes and within short order, but not before becoming pregnant, she discovered he was a heroin addict and gave him the boot. Admitting defeat and returning to her parents' home must have been difficult for this woman who by all accounts was a force to be reckoned with. She never remarried and my father only met his father when he turned 21. They never formed a relationship, seeing each other only twice before Emile died.

The names of these grandparents were never spoken in our home. They had both died before I came along so I didn't consider not knowing about them to be unusual.

I did, however, miss having grandparents for my mother's parents had also died before I was born.

Being able to put a name to this disgraced grandpa was really something.

I was talking over the phone about this with my mother last night, once more lamenting that somewhere along the way Dad's family tree that he'd had done back in the 70s had been lost.

"Oh, I have that," she said.

Oh, you have those? I've only been asking for them for 29 years! Twenty-nine years. Plus she knows that I'm tracing the family tree now and never offered them up. Mom, geez!

"How many times have I said I wish I had them?" I asked her. "And you know what I'm working on and it never twigged with you  to give them to me?"

ARRRGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!

That said, it seems one of the trees has been lost as she only has the one from my paternal grandmother's side of the family and both sides had been done. I'll be visiting her at the end of next month and will hunt for the other.

To be fair to Mom, and some days that's harder than others, she is trying much harder with me than she ever has. Over the course of my life with her, she has been so self-absorbed that I can well believe she never once heard me regretting the loss of the missing information. Now in her 80s, we've come to a new stage in our relationship, at my insistence, and I can tell she makes notes when we talk so that she remembers to ask about things in my kids and my lives when we speak. Good for her. Really. It can't be easy to change after eight decades.

So way to go, Mom. I appreciate your effort.

Anyone have any family stories to share?

Colleen

Uncovering roots

I've been watching Lisa Kudrow's new show Who Do You Think You Are? with fascination. There is something about tracing family roots that I find compelling. I think it has something to do with finding a sense of history, of continuation. A sense of home.

I imagine this is because of my feelings about my own impermanence.

It may have something to do with the fact that my family moved every few years as I was growing up. It may also have to do with my own loss of family when I was five and again when I was 12.

My older siblings and my younger sister and I do not share the same mother. Our lives have been completely different from each other. The oldest three were raised French-speaking and Catholic. My sister and I were raised English speaking and atheist. They were poor. We were middle class. They didn't have a father around because we had him.

Before I was born, the three of them came to live with us. It had to have been a strained situation for them, to say the least. My mother was the Jezebel who had stolen their father away, or so they had been raised to believe.

They lived with us after I was born and for the first five years of my life. At least the boys did. My older sister had gone back to live with her mother sometime during that period. Exactly when, I am not sure. I have no recollection of her although she was the one who picked my middle name.

My older brother was the next to leave for work and then marriage.

It was my other brother, Gilbert, whom I idolized.He was the middle kid of the first family. Born with a club foot, he spent years in and out of Sick Kids Hospital in Toronto. Back then, there were no accommodations for parents to stay near their children so his mother couldn't visit. Although Mom and Dad went to see him, it wouldn't have been the same as things are today for hospitalized kids. He must have been so alone. He was the one who struggled the most in school. He was the kid who grew to love my mom. That couldn't have been easy for him either.

While most little girls go through a phase when they want to marry their fathers, I wanted to grow up and marry Gil.

When I was about four, he bought me a white bathrobe. It had three-quarter length sleeves with layer upon layer of white lace from the elbows down capped by a single band of red velvet. The belt was a piece of red velvet ribbon. It made me feel like I was a fairy princess.

When I was three or four at dinnertime, Gil noticed that I was fiddling with my peas. I hated them and he knew I did. He also knew that if I didn't eat them, I might be at the table for a long time. He promised that if I ate them all, he would take me on his ship. I wolfed them down and he was true to his word. When the day come for my parents to take me on board, I was excited and hopped around his cabin waiting for his shift to end. After some time, a tall black man entered and laughed when I didn't recognize him.He showered and there he was, my big brother. While I pictured him as a captain, he worked in the engine room shovelling coal.

When I was five, my older siblings had a disagreement with our father and vanished from our lives. In a second, they were gone. I didn't know why. I don't know if I ever asked.

I was, at some point, instructed not to talk about them. In grade two, when the class was given an assignment to write a story entitled All About Me, I began by listing the names of my siblings. My mother made me erase it and start again leaving them out. She said that other people won't understand divorce or step-families.

It was a few years before I saw them again. Contact was first made with my oldest brother. Some time later, as we were en route to our new home in northern Quebec, we stopped in northern Ontario to see my sister. She pleaded with us to call Gil. My father acquiesed but when Gil asked us to visit him, my father refused.

It was the last time we spoke with him.

He killed himself the next year. His funeral was on September 4, 1971, my twelfth birthday.

I remember people saying how awful he looked in his casket. That his skin was blue from asphyxiation. I thought he looked beautiful.

I remember too that I felt guilty for not having argued with my father that day when we talked to Gil on the phone. I remember wanting to, but holding my feelings inside. That's what good girls do.

It was a long time before I stopped looking for him. Watching for him in crowds, behind the wheel of a big rig (I'd heard he'd been a trucker for a while), walking down the street. I still think about Gil almost everyday.

So, tracing family roots is a project I have slated for my retirement years. Names filled into squares that connect to other squares that let me know that I am a part of something. To be able to run my fingertips over the names and know that I belong somewhere.

And that no one can take that away from me.

Colleen

Post-holiday stuff

My head is muddled today. Post holiday let down, I suppose.

For anyone wondering, I did finish up the albums for the kids and wrote little stories to go with the photos. The kids really liked them.

This was the first holiday that my son is working full-time and had to work on Boxing Day. My daughter was off work but left Christmas night to return the next day for breakfast out and then left again. We were supposed to go to a movie but she forgot and made plans with friends. The holiday lasted one whole day.

One day... for so much planning, anticipation and, let's be honest, work. It just doesn't seem worthwhile.

Maybe it's me being single for the first time in a few years.

I am bummed.

The ex has a role to play in my mood too. A few days before Christmas, he invited me out for dinner and confessed his lingering feelings for me.. his newly discovered concern and caring for me... absent during our relationship. He wondered if there might be a chance for us in the future. I haven't heard from him since with the exception of a 30-second call on Christmas Day.

It seems the future comes and goes faster than one might think.

Ah, well. Enough whining. Back to the joy of sending query letters.

How was your holiday?

C

Let the season of returns begin!

As I write this I am on hold with Sears. My mom, who lives in Ontario, sent Christmas gifts for my kids. She ships them, I wrap them, It's a fine agreement.

This year, however, Mom purchased clothes for my 26-year-old daughter in size small. My daughter is lovely and beautiful but a size small she is not. So, I have offered to attempt to exchange them for a larger size. Did I mention that Mom has lost the receipt?

I decide to call to find out the best course of action.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

Ah, six minutes and the bleat of a voice interjects over the insipid and static-filled Muzak.

And I'm disconnected.

I dial again. This time I am lucky to get through to someone who offers to help. I need the receipt she tells me. Yes, I explain. But I don't have one and neither does my 81-year-old mother. I am put on hold.

When the woman returns, she tells me to call another number to locate the receipt.

But how, I inquire, can they find a receipt for a couple of items purchased in another province and not on a credit card?

That's what they will tell you, she says. Is that okay with you?

Sure, I guess so. I mean if you think it will help.

I dial.

I, of course, am on hold and a recording tells me something about return policies and that maybe I might want to send my query via email.

I do not think so.

I hold.

This Muzak is at least clear. An electronic piano with a popcorn-sounding back beat. Shoot me.

I have to pee.

Oh, glory. Latin-inspired Muzak. Where are my dancing shoes?

I wonder if I can -- oh! a voice!

And I've been given the wrong number. I have to call retail returns not catalogue returns.

At least I can pee. And grab the cordless phone.

Now, for the fourth time, a recording tells me that Sears is most interested in making me a happy customer.

I guess we will see whether that is the case, won't we?

I wait only seconds and am connected with a woman with a bad cough and a heavy accent. French of some sort, I believe. Between the coughing, however, she is able to tell me that I have to contact my local store and that the decision to let me return/exchange something is up to the store.

I tell her that it has taken four calls to get this information. She laughs and tells me that I finally found the right person.

She made me laugh too. There is something in the French attitude of "everyone else is an idiot and I am the only one who can do anything right" that can crack me up.

Of course, the reason I called in the first place is because there is no one at the local Sears store who I have dealt with who I consider the least helpful. Or maybe that's exactly what I consider them to be: the least helpful.

Tomorrow. I'll think about it tomorrow.

Mom, you owe me.

But it's snowing. I can't be mad when it's snowing. Not the early snow. Not before Christmas. Later in the season, yes, but today, no.

Happy, happy day!

Colleen

Yesterday

Down another four pounds this week. Take that, Mom! HA!

On another less glorious note, I mistakenly thought my writer's group was to meet yesterday and bused over to Clayton Park only to discover that our schedule had a hiccup and we're meeting next week. I took the opportunity to have lunch with my daughter so it made the trip worthwhile.

Today, my son starts his new job as a server (promotion from host/busperson). It's the first time he has to bus to work so of course I had to call him to make sure the bus arrived on time so he wouldn't be late. (Okay, I know I worry too much but wait till your kids are at that age when you have to start treating them like adults. It's not that easy.)

Now, I'm going to do a bit of yoga to get the day off to a good start, do some laundry and get down to some work!

Have a great day!
Colleen

Sunday

I had the treat of borrowing a car yesterday in hopes of catching Whip It with my kids. (It was playing in a theatre out in the big-box store area that would take us about an hour to bus to.) It's rare that we all want to see the same movie so I was pretty excited. My mood was dashed when I discovered that the only showtime is 9:50 by which time I had to return the car. Damn.

Still the car allowed me to do a large grocery order and for my daughter to haul all of her laundry here and back again. She couldn't have done that on the bus easily.

The kids and I have made a pact to get together every Sunday for dinner. Again, it's not that I don't see them individually (I live with my son after all) but that they don't see each other. We had dinner then watched The Devil Wears Prada. My son was definitely in lets-humour-mom mode because I was so disappointed in not getting out to the movie we had planned on. I've booked them both to watch it with me when it launches on Pay Per View or is released on video. (On a side note: Everyone involved with TDWP should be giving a cut of their salaries to Meryl Streep. It would have really sucked if she hadn't been in it. She is a god.)

In other news, I've lost 20 pounds in six weeks and have been making good progress with my latest manuscript including writing a synopsis for it that will become part of my grant application next month. How rare of me to get anything done ahead of time!

Colleen