My Grandma was a jolly, fun woman who loved to laugh. When I was in my second year of university, she was in her 90s, and her health failed. Dementia began to set in. She could no longer live alone in her apartment.

Mom brought Grandma to live with her. But Mom was still teaching, supporting me at university as well as herself, and couldn't stay home to look after Grandma.

In an age when women did not work outside the home, my mother had been raised to feel it was shameful to send one's aging relatives away to a "home" to be cared for by strangers. Good, decent descendants took their kin in and cared for them at home. A string of women paraded through our house, hired by my mother to stay with Grandma while Mom was at work. They repeatedly got better jobs, failed to show up, called in sick just before Mom left for work... It was a nightmare for my mother.  Finally, she had to admit defeat--failure, I'm sure she called it to herself, though no one else did--and place Grandma in a nursing home. She visited her there every day, and I visited her whenever I was home from University.

Here's a picture of my Grandma on her 100th birthday shortly before she passed away.

What I remember about all this, is my Mother's heartache over Grandma's failing health, the look on her face as she watched Grandma, nodding off in the armchair in the living room after dinner. I watched Mom knitting the shrug Grandma's wearing in this photo, late at night as we watched TV before bed, and the image stayed with me - of Mom trying to ward off the cold of Grandma's approaching death.  I wrote:

MENDING

You watch her
wearing her last days,
and late at night
I hear you
scrubbing, patching, darning
the worn fabric
of her years.

Again tonight
while she nodded in shadows,
your troubled eyes
examined her
seeking the fault
in your mending.

I am in University. Love it, love it, LOVE IT! These three years are among the happiest of my life, and I am lucky enough to know it.

Memories of English classes and pub debates, movies and coffee-houses with folksingers or poetry readings, student theatre and dorm pranks, faces of friends i will love forever, cold walks across campus to the library, sitting on the floor along the dorm hallway with my floor-mates, drinking tea and talking, all-nighters to meet essay deadlines, Hallowe'en and Christmas dances, disgusting cafeteria food, and the feeling that anything was possible, that my life could be wonderful...

My creative writing class was in a cement building. One day, the prof told us to write a poem in 10 minutes about anything. I looked around the room, and saw one long narrow window in the corner of the classroom. I am an outside person, a small-town girl who spent most of her childhood out in the hills and trees and rivers. Not a city girl. I look at this single, sad window and I write:

THE WINDOW

In remorse
the architect
slashed
a long, thin wound
into his concrete creation.

The sunlight
leaps in,
glitters fiercely
on the rug.

Overhead
the law-abiding
electricity
hums complacently.

I'm looking forward to reading and commenting on ALL the posts I'm missing as soon as I get home, and I'm thinking of all of you! It is beginning to feel like I've grown up with you and/or your characters.

So year eighteen - in Canada, when I was in high school, we had a 5th year - Grade Thirteen - for those students going on to University. It was - in my high school, at least - brutal. I worked twice, three times as hard that year as any year in my undergrad degree - and pulled in lower grades than I ever got in university. The teachers were deliberately hard markers to "prepare us for university".

It was the best year of my high school life! No, really. I got to take 2 Englishes (that alone was heaven) plus 2 histories, French and German - and unfortunately one mandatory Math. I couldn't wait to get to University and take ALL Englishes (does life get better?) My teachers, though tough, were amazing, especially Mr. Elliot, my English teacher. I sat enthralled through his classes. And we actually had discussions in class. I was in my element, and it lasted all through University.

Although I  was mostly miserable during the first 4 years of high school, I was sad to see it end. I am nostalgic by nature, and endings always sadden me.

This is also a time of examining everything - including  my unquestioning childhood faith.
Here is how i described that in poetry.

MIRACLES

Somewhere
the yellow-warm easy-love
faith has been
spilled or broken
before its first miracle.

but we
emptied half-animal
into cold white,
naked and ugly
with instinctive gropings,
how do we find
hidden with the cleansers
under the kitchen sink
the small, sealed bottle
of mountain-remover?

The year I was seventeen, York University in Toronto held their first Symposium, for High School students across Canada. Winners spent a weekend at York presenting their winning entry and generally soaking up the university atmosphere (and, of course, being subtly wooed by the university). In this photo I am with two other winners and two of the Profs involved in the symposium that year.

The boy on my left won for research in medicine, the boy on my right, with glasses, for biology (he also became my boyfriend for 3 years, took me to his prom and I took him to mine.)

My winning entry? For poetry. Afraid I couldn't dig up that entry, but you'll be seeing some of my poetry in upcoming posts. I wrote poetry from - oh, grade two, probably - until I got married. (No one is ever going to see the Grade Two stuff, so don't ask!)  When I started writing again, 20 years later, I was more interested in writing fiction, which is what I mostly write now, along with memoir.

But here is the poem I wrote on breaking up with this lovely young man, my first boyfriend:

Autumn Air

Thin and bland
are our
decaffeinated
coffee conversations
as we politely
distance our affections.

Like smokers cutting down
or mallards
preparing for departure,
we recognize
the autumn air
between us.

Sweet Sixteen. And It was a sweet year! Sixteen was the year I found the love of my life: travel!

Okay, maybe just ONE of the loves of my life, but certainly an abiding one. My first solo trip was a summer student exchange trip to Quebec. I'd been studying French for three years in school, and thought I was prepared. Trouble was, we learned the pronunciation of Parisian French in school, not the accent and idioms of rural Quebec, where I was headed.

My train stopped at a tiny station late at night to let me off. Most of the other exchange students had left at Montreal and other cities and large towns along the way. My French exchange student, Lise, and her parents greeted me. Nervous? Nope, I was terrified. They barely spoke English; I barely spoke French.  I followed them into their car and we drove, mostly in silence after a few clumsy and ineffective attempts to communicate, for an hour, further and further into the dark and isolated countryside. That was my fault: I had asked to be placed on a farm.

When we arrived at their house, it was midnight. They offered me a drink before going to bed. Unfortunately, they offered it in Quebecois: "Est-ce que tu veux une liqueur?" I got the 'Do you want' part, but the last word threw me. Shocked, I stammered, "Je ne suis pas Veingt-et-un!" They laughed heartily. 21 was the legal drinking age then, so it was obvious what I thought they had offered me. Lise's Mere, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes, got out a can of pop and said, "de liqueur."

We went to bed, and the next morning I woke up with a terrible case of culture shock. Everyone gets it once, like chicken pox, then you're immune. I lay there in bed paralyzed with fear. I was adrift on my own, surrounded by complete strangers and I couldn't understand a word they said, and they couldn't understand me. It took every ounce of courage I could muster to get out of that bed and go downstairs to meet them.

And after that, it was fine. They were good people, and Lise and I became great friends, and still are. We developed a kind of Frenglish between us that seemed to work. I have never experienced culture shock again.
Here we are, that summer we were 16 together.

At then, in an embarassment of riches, Mom and I went to England that same summer! With all my older siblings out of university and independently settled, Mom could finally pursue her own life-long dream - to meet the English relatives and see the beloved places she had grown up hearing about.

My Grandmother was a WWI war bride. She nursed my Grandpa back to health when he was wounded, and married him to keep him that way. She never quite adapted to 'the colonies' and missed her home, I think, all her life. She got back once, when my Mom was a teenager, but that was a financial stretch that couldn't be repeated.

When Mom was planning her trip, she told Grandma about it when we were visiting her, and asked Grandma if she wanted to come with us. I'll never forget my Grandma's answer: "Phyllis, I've said goodbye to my family twice now, each time believing I'd never see them again. i can't do it again."  I think that comment, and the force with which it hit me, is why, for all my love of travel, I've never settled far from home. Home is the place you come back to, and home is always your people.

That trip to England was WONDERFUL. My English relatives were welcoming and funny and, in three short weeks, the distant genetic connection became a huge emotional connection. Every day I woke feeling like it was Christmas, with something new to see and do. The best day was when my second cousin, three years older than me, and his friend, took me around London. A whole day without adults - not that I didn't love them, but I was inundated with them - what a relief!

I said goodbye to these new family members I'd come to love, believing I'd never see them again - and cried all the way home on the airplane.

(I did, however, see them again many times. Any time I hop the pond, I check in on them before exploring other parts of Europe. Furthermore, I married an English Immigrant, and his Geordie relatives have become family, too, which also draws us back when possible.)

And finally, as if that weren't enough for one year, I became an Aunt (and a Godmother)! Here I am with my sister's child, Staci. The following year, my brother Peter and Jan had a baby boy, Michael. I adored them from day one, and all my other nieces and nephews as they made their entrance. Love just keeps on growing!

What an awesome year!

Not mine. Only my Medieval heroine gets married at this age. But when I was 14, my oldest brother got married. He was 23, just graduated from Boston University. I wasn't in the wedding party, but I'll never forget the event - we flew to the States, and stayed in a hotel! My first ever airplane flight, my first ever night in a hotel. I remember every minute of both. (The wedding itself is a blur - Sorry about that, Peter and Jan).

Here we are - me, my mom and the groom-to-be, my brother Peter.

The next spring, when I was 15, my sister got married. We didn't fly, and didn't stay in a hotel; she got married in our hometown, Newmarket, Ontario. But I did get to be her Maid of Honour, and that was pretty cool, too.

Here we are, just before the wedding, for a photo op at our Mom's Vanity table. Seven years later, just before my wedding, I have a photo of me sitting on the chair and Linda, my Matron of Honour, arranging my veil in the same mirror.

What do I remember about these weddings? My brother was so nervous he bungled his lines at the rehersal. My sister was so scared Peter's arm was clenched as hard as a log, which she clung to to keep from falling as they navigated the aisle. When it was my turn, I marched stiffly beside my brother Richard, promising myself all the way down the aisle that I could have it annulled the next day.

What a surprise! All three of us are still married to the same people 3 decades later.

When I was nine, my best friend moved away. I was devastated. She had more on her mind than losing a friend, however: her parents were separating. This was so unheard of at the time, I don't think it really registered for me; or maybe I didn't know till later. People didn't talk about divorce then. At the time, I was just upset about losing her.
 
A year later, a miracle happened: I was riding my bike down the street, and there she was, playing with some kids on the front yard of the house she used to live in! Her father had decided to sell the house instead of continuing to rent it out, and had brought my friend Ivy and her younger sisters to see it one last time.

We exchanged addresses and agreed to write - a task less daunting at ten than it was at nine. For the next couple of years we wrote (sporadically) and visited each other on weekends occasionally. Ivy and her siblings lived with her mom just an hour's drive or bus ride away.

Then her mom had a 'nervous breakdown' (the polite term for any mental illness at that time). Her Dad worked evenings and had to take frequent business trips, so Ivy went to live with her Grandparents.

Ivy came to visit me for a weekend that summer. She was miserable. Her Grandparents were strict, cold, demanding people who had disapproved of her mom from the start. They expected Ivy, as the eldest, to help with the younger kids and the housework. Unfortunately, Ivy was as flighty, timid and irresponsible as her mother.

Ivy poured out her troubles to me, spiced with examples of her Grandma's meanness, all weekend. By Sunday, I was as upset on her behalf as she was. Something had to be done! And quickly, because Ivy had to catch a 7:00 pm bus back to Toronto right after supper that night.

At the bottom of the hill a creek ran under the road. We had taken off our shoes and socks and were walking along it, scouting for frogs (well, I was, Ivy was just wading, she wasn't the catch-frogs-in-your-hands type) when I had a brainstorm. Ivy could come and live with me! My mom could take care of her (even then I realized that Ivy needed taking care of) and she could share my room. Like, permanent sleepovers with my best friend! But how to convince my mom?

We talked about this as we waded--it was such a good idea I forgot to look for frogs--and concluded the first step was that Ivy couldn't get on that bus. Of course, my mom would definitely be opposed to that.

We'd reached the place where the creek ran under the road. A tin tubing just big enough for us to walk into single file, bent over completely at the waist, allowed the river to flow underneath. I led the way in. The road above us was only two lanes, so it wasn't too dark. Suddenly I stopped.

"Ivy! This is a perfect placer to hide. We can wait here till your bus has left, then go home!"

Ivy was doubtful. I had to reassure her that Mom wouldn't be mad when she learned why we did it, and then I had to convince her we had to wait here--I knew Mom would send my older sister and brother out to find me when we didn't show up for supper, and they knew all my places. "There just isn't any other way," I told her.

We had a long wait in that little metal tubing, our feet in the water, crouched side by side against the metal. Our feet got cold. our backs and bottoms got damp. Every time a car drove over us the tunnel rattled and shook and the noise was awful. Normally I never noticed when the streetlights came on--supposed to be my signal to get home, but actually, my sister's signal to come haul me home--but this evening I saw them light up with relief. It was after 7:00 pm. We crawled out of the tunnel, put our socks and shoes on, and walked home.

Mom was really mad. My sister and brothers, who'd been out hunting for us, were even madder. And worst of all, it didn't work. Mom called Ivy's Dad and Grandparents to let them know we'd been found, and arranged to have Ivy take the 9:30 pm bus instead. No time to argue, she whisked Ivy into the car for the drive to the bus station and left me with orders to take a bath and get to bed.

When she returned, without Ivy, to my disappointment (I'd been hoping she'd miss that bus, too) she came into my bedroom. I started into an explanation of how miserable Ivy was at her Grandparents, how mean they were to her, how much she wanted to live with us.

"She needs us, Mom," I finished tearfully.

A month later, Ivy came to live with us, just before my thirteenth birthday. She stayed a little over a year, by which time her Dad had changed jobs and got a place where he could have Ivy and her siblings live with him.

But what adventures we got up to that year!

I have thought and thought, but nothing worth writing about happened in my eleventh year. It wasn't a bad year, it wasn't a good year. It was just a year.

But when I was twelve... what a year! I fell in love. The kind of breathless, heart-stopping, going to explode with it, intense love only adolescents can feel. He was cute, he was a year older than me because I'd skipped a grade ( that was called enrichment back then) so I was twelve in Grade Eight, a year younger than my classmates.

And this wasn't love from afar. He noticed me! He sat beside me for half our classes, and we'd talk and whisper and joke and laugh together - certainly not pay attention to lessons. Mostly we talked about James Bond and The Man From UNCLE, which we both watched avidly. He didn't ever bother talking to any other girls. Yup, i was loved back, it seems.

I remember the way I felt then, and I have to say, it's straight from Twilight. The incredible intensity of first love. We never met outside of school. We never held hands, let alone kissed. He moved away at the end of the school year, and I never saw him again.

Which was really the only good way it could end when you're twelve.

Do you remember your first love?

Dear Photograph,
How different you look to me now, the house I grew up in. Is there another family growing up in you? How many have you seen, over the years, happy families, sad families, all sharing their lives with you? Do you remember this family, my family, standing on the small square cement patio at your front door, having their picture taken, so many years ago? I was only 10 years old then; I'd lived in you for 5 years, and I spent another eight years with you before leaving for university. But you will always feel like home to me.

                                                 ******
Today, I visited my brother in Newmarket, Ontario, the town we grew up in. I've been thinking of doing a "Dear Photograph" post, so I brought with me an old photo of us standing in front of our house.

My brother drove us over, and as he approached the house, he asked, "So are you going to knock on the door, ask them if you can take a photo?"

"No, I'll just take it," I said, as he parked across the road in front of the house. "What the heck, it's only a couple photos." I reached for the door handle.

Just then, a police car passed us on the street.

"But I think I'll wait till the police car's gone," I added, settling back in the seat..

When the coast was clear, I dragged my husband out with me to stand in front of the house holding the photo while I lined up the shot. It's not as easy as it looks, taking a "Dear Photograph" picture. I should have had him go closer to the house, but I knew he'd balk at walking on their lawn. I was pushing my luck to get him to stand on the public sidewalk  holding the photo while I shot three pics, making adjustments to his hand, my angle, etc.

Then we drove down the street to the house I lived in from 2 - 5 years old. This was easier, because I hadn't thought to bring a photo, so I could just snap a picture, not a "Dear Photograph" picture of then and now..

This is the house where I had asthma (because it was near a creek and wetland), the house where I was stung (but not by the wasp), the house with the steps on which I sat in my kitten-ear hat at two years old (and built a fort under those steps at 4 years old).

What surprised me was how much smaller the houses looked. All the old houses of my friends and neighbours looked equally small. Middle class families lived in much smaller houses then, than they do now, I think. But we were just as happy piled two kids to a bedroom, as my children were, each with her own bedroom. I guess it's just what you come to expect. I wouldn't want to go back to one bathroom for the whole family, though! ("Anyone need to use the bathroom before I take my bath?")

What’s more fun than blogging? Blogging together with a common theme, then blog hopping to see each others' posts. Writers often seek writing prompts to stimulate their creativity, and anyone who’s participated in NaNoWriMo knows how productive writing in community can be. So here’s an October challenge that will get your creative juices flowing, increase traffic to your blog, and get you warmed up for NaNoWriMo – or any other creative project you’re engaged in.

Can you produce 25 blog posts in one month? Sure, if you have a theme to inspire you. So here’s the theme: write a memory or reflection for each of the first 25 years of life. It can be a personal memoir from your life, a reflection on turning a certain age, a recollection of someone else at that age, a poem or a photo, on the ages 1 to 25.

For example, on October 1st, you could write about something that happened the year you were born, or about the birth of your child. You could do a photo collage of your first year of life, or of babies. On October 2nd, write about something that happened at age two to you or someone else. If you write a poetry blog, compose a poem for each year of life up to 25. If you write a cooking blog, you could include recipes for healthy baby food, snacks for toddlers, etc. A gardener could reminisce about learning to love gardens at each age, or introducing the hobby to her children as they grow, or suggest gardening ideas for the various ages. Photographers can capture each year in photos. This will work with any type of blog, and you can experiment with different media or genres in your own posts. Br inventive - surprise us, delight us, inspire us, make us laugh, make us cry. Try something different every day or stick to one format and focus on content – anything goes as long as you blog about ages 1-25.

For those who write fiction, this is a good way to troll your past experiences for great story ideas. Or write your blog from the point of view of one of your characters (or a character from your favourite novel) recalling an experience from his or her past – great for fan fiction, character development or experimenting with backstory. If you’re participating in NaNoWriMo, this will be a good warm-up as you hear your characters reminisce in their own voices.

Skip a day if you have to, but try not to skip an age – and please blog the ages in order – that way we can see what others did with the same age we’ve just posted about. If you don’t finish it’ll still be fun as far as you get, and if you have to skip a day or two now and then, that’s okay. There are 31 days to complete 25 posts.

If you can’t do this challenge this year, can you support us? Follow our challenge, tweet it, mention it on your blog and link back to this post. Any support is appreciated! The October Memoir and Backstory Blog Challenge sign up will open on Monday, September 24. Spread the word and start planning your blog posts!