On Valentine’s Past

wpid-img_20150215_224301.jpgValentine’s weekend is almost over.  I used to detest Valentine’s Day, never mind weekend.

The pressure I put on myself to fit into the perfect cookie cutter valentine and somehow pull off the vision of commercial love on a personal level. What happened to the classroom story of St. Valentine and drizzling hot toffee on the snow? That’s all behind me, the pressure of being the perfect valentine and toffee on the snow.

I look forward to Valentine’s weekend. It’s a great excuse to celebrate weekend-long self-love.  But who’s kidding, isn’t that every weekend, every weekday?

Who cares, this is a Valentine’s weekend post and those are just semantics 🙂

I have good memories of the few boys who’ve made an attempt at making my Valentine’s day special. Perhaps not quite leaving the mark they were attempting.

My favourite being the year I wore jeans and an old sweatshirt for the big night out. I am not sure if the reason for my continued amusement is that I found this man’s obsessions peculiar; from his annoyance that he’d only dated 1 girl before me, (which seemed to consume him each time we hung out), his penchant for walking around his place half-dressed while I sat amongst his mess waiting for him to burn his skin with his fried eggs, or maybe it was his “come-back” two years later when I couldn’t escape fast enough from the thoughtful home-cooked meal he put together for me – I wasn’t ready for his attentiveness.

However, the real reason I smile so wildly today at the thought of this bygone valentine, is the gift he gave me.

I remember the smell of his cologne, his shy handsome smile and light kiss he left on my cheek when he gifted me a plant. The plant died, the love never did bloom and the nice shiny red vase has since made the journey to Sweden. It is sitting comfortably on a window sill enjoying Scandinavian Valentine’s.

This memory will forever bring out a smile and remind me of my 20’s.

Saunders Street

We are preparing to land.  My left ear is starting to pain.  Maybe I didn’t take enough cold and sinus advil.   I rummage through my carryon bag desperately trying to find my little pill case.

The gentleman beside me, my seat mate, is watching with anticipation “what is she going to dig out of her bag,” I dream he is thinking.

He appears to be in his late 50’s or early 60’s.  His smell reminds me of Sunday afternoons at Saunders Street. Sitting on the living room floor playing with Pluto and Donald Duck.

What ever happened to those plastic figurines after my Nana’s passing, I will never know.  But I liked that living room.  The social tea cookies and the little tin Nana stored them in. The upright piano and the looming blacksmith painting hanging above it. The wooden side tables with the adjustable pot lamps built right in. 

My grandad siting at one end of the room, happy, watching us play and making conversation with us.  Suggesting that my sister and I might one day both be missionaries, together. My sister, sitting by my side, vehemently disagreeing.

I felt hurt as a 5 year old that my sister wouldn’t want to go on a blind adventure with me.  Who cares if it’s missionary work, it’ll be fun, we’ll always be together, forever. But in my sisters 6 and 1/2 year old world, I was an annoying younger sister who one day, she’d be rid of.

Of course I don’t really know what she was thinking when she disagreed but at 5 years old, she was rejecting ME,  not an honorable but perhaps obscure, homeless, missionaries life.

All this from sitting beside a man who smells like my grandad did some 30 years ago!

Pens, Pencils, Markers…

Pens, Pencils, Markers…

imageIt may look like a random pile of writing instruments, but going through this old tin is a treasure trove of memories. 

The pens, pencils and markers started collecting in an old wooden whiskey box which is funny in its own way since there was no whiskey in the house.  They eventually moved into an empty Pot of Gold Christmas chocolate tin, which is almost as funny as the whiskey box since we didn’t celebrate Christmas either, not really, not the in the “traditional” way. 

None the less, this old tin with it’s collection has travelled with me for the last 15 years, 12 moves and it is only this week I decided to have a look.

Can you imagine all the great and wonderful memories these simple, used, lightly damaged pens, pencils and markers brought back.

From the A&P, Independent, art class, science fair projects, old drafting pencils from started, stopped, started, stopped drawings of GREATNESS 🙂 and lastly Laurentian pencil crayons…. who is Chad L. anyway? 

I miss my family!

Love the memories 🙂