“Full Circle”

Tomorrow would have been my mother’s 89^th birthday. Actually, it will still be her birthday; she’s just not here to celebrate it.

Ter and I used to call her on the day and sing a silly birthday song we learned in church. Maybe we’ll do it this year, too, only without the telephone. Last year, instead of taking her and Dad to lunch, we drove out to the house, where Wee Sis and Boy Sister joined us for tea and cake in an impromptu party. It was one of the happiest times I’ve had. No one suspected it would be our last birthday with Mum.

I’ve spent this whole summer trying to write a poem that would do her justice. I’ve played with phrases and couplets, seeking to describe the “something special” that Dad says existed between Mum and me from the day I was born. Who am I kidding? A proper poetic tribute would have to be an epic to rival the Viking sagas, except it exceeds my ability to compose one.

And yet, perhaps an epic ode is unnecessary. In this instance, perhaps less is truly more. A single line that came to me on the day of her passing seems to say it all. It certainly feels that way.

You were there when I arrived

And I was there to say good bye.

Happy Birthday, Mum.

Piercing

Wee Sis holding me together - I couldn't stop laughing

The hardest part of dressing for work is figuring out what earrings to wear, then allowing for time to separate the winners from their fellows. When I was a kid, I had no inclination whatsoever to get my ears pierced; neither my mother nor my older sister had theirs done ... but my wee sister was different.

She had hers done at sixteen. I think it gave her something of her own, something that wasn’t emulating either of her older sisters. Of Dad’s three girls, she played more with makeup and was constantly rearranging her room—if anyone in the clan could have been an artist or an interior designer, it’s my little sister. She has the eye for it. She’s also responsible for my daily bling dilemma. She’s the reason why I got my ears pierced.

She won’t remember it this way, but here’s my story and I’m sticking to it:

I was nineteen and had a summer job with the CNIB, so it must have been 1981. One day wee sis met me at noon and we went somewhere for eats. I don’t remember where or what, but it was fast enough that we were left with a half hour before I had to get back to the office. She looked at me and asked, “What do we want to do until then?”

“Let’s get my ears pierced,” I replied.

I was joking, but when she lit up and said, “Okay!” I was—gak!—committed. We have always loved each other, but we could be brutal when we were younger, and if I chickened out, I’d never hear the end of it. Actually, that may yet be the case in some circumstances. Anyway, we got into the car (she was already driving; I had yet to get my license) and headed to the shop where her ears had been pierced a year or so earlier.

The place was empty. No customers and, better yet, no staff. To impress wee sis with my pseudo-sincerity, I made a point of perusing the merchandise as if contemplating my first purchase. In truth, I was counting the seconds in hope of escaping with my lobes intact. I almost made it, too. I was about to suggest that time was running short when the clerk appeared like a phantom menace and asked if we needed help.

I opened my mouth to say, “No, thanks.”

The words never left my lips. Wee sister took me by the shoulders, turned me to face the salesperson, and said, “My sister wants to get her ears pierced.” She gave me a little shove for emphasis and I was officially doomed.

I vaguely remember hyperventilating in front of a mirror while the clerk drew dots on my earlobes and my sister watched from a strategic spot near the door, no doubt in case I decided to make a run for it. Make a run for it? I could barely breathe, let alone make my limbs work. I closed my eyes as the loaded stapler hovered near my right ear. A sharp pop!, and warming blood rushed to the offended lobe. A few seconds later, the entire deed was done. As we walked back to the car, my little sister put her arm around my shoulders and declared, “I’m so proud of you!”

So tomorrow morning, when I’m pawing through my tangled box of studs and snarled hoops, I will remind myself of those precious words and how good it made me feel to hear them.

Impressing your older sister can be tricky enough. Impressing your younger sister? Now that’s a coup!

Love you, wee ’un.

Duty Calls

People love to complain about things, but in a democracy the responsibility for change sits squarely on our shoulders. You may not get the candidate you vote for, but the act of voting itself is a show of respect for those who fought (and died) to ensure you have a say at all. On this Remembrance Day weekend, it’s more important than ever to honour their sacrifice at every opportunity.

BC is currently conducting a mail-in referendum on electoral reform. We have been given a chance to change a system that many of us have griped about for-seeming-ever. I won’t try to describe the options here because the details are irrelevant for anyone outside of BC, and anyone inside BC has until November 30 to mail your ballot to Elections BC—only you’d better mail it in well before the 30^th because postal service is hiccupping on Canada Post’s rotating strike. And it’s important that your ballot is counted. This is what democracy is all about, Charlie Brown.

There’s been a buzz about something in the wind for the past few weeks, but not much in the media besides advertisements for and against electoral reform, neither of which did much to unravel the mystery of the alternatives to the system we have now.

The system that’s literally been in place for centuries. The system that, with some alteration, is why Hillary Clinton won the popular vote in the States, but lost the presidential election. That’s why I’ve paid attention to this referendum. I don’t want something similar to happen here.

I know, I know. It’s confusing. I dislike recommendations to visit anyone’s website for more information because I don’t spend a lot of time on the Internet. Government websites aren’t always easy to navigate, and the 1-800 toll free phone number generally advises me that “our call volume has exceeded our capacity, so please try again later.” Information can been spotty and not very well explained. In truth, I was so befuddled by the options to “first past the post” that I almost declined to vote at all. Then I thought, No, I have to vote; it’s a privilege and my responsibility, but figured I’d stay with the status quo. But then I realized I’m unhappy with the status quo, and maybe I should consider the options—or at least watch the news blurb wherein the options were, as it turned out, sorta kinda outlined and didn’t impress me into changing my mind.

Ter and I watched the televised debate between the Premier and the Leader of the Opposition a couple of days ago. That was where the three alternatives being offered were explained in a way that chimed. It helped me make up my mind not only to vote at all, but to think about the choices and consciously decide which one aligns with my sense of how government should look.

It didn’t take that long. Sure, it took some effort because I had to use my brain, but when I gave myself five minutes to focus, some things became clear. Better yet, when I finally opened the referendum package that came in the mail, I understood what I was reading. I almost messed up the ballot, but I caught myself and got it safely in the mail this afternoon. “Look at us,” I said to Ter, “participating in the democratic process!” Considering that women weren’t allowed to vote a hundred years ago, it’s more precious to me than ever.

Truly, BC reader, you didn’t have to have watched the debate to comprehend the write up in the package you received; just give yourself five minutes to focus. Think about whether or not you’re okay with where we’re at. If you are, say so. If you’re not, do the work, then make it count.

From now on, complaining is not an option.