childhood, Free thinking, heartache, Mind play, natural living, trauma, Uncategorized, writing

Why did I bite the man

How come you bit him my parents asked. “Because he said I could,” was my simple answer. Earlier I had been sitting on the stairs coming up from the basement. I wasn’t allowed downstairs but I was halfway so technically I was obeying. The men lived in the basement once their cabin burnt down. We all ate meals together and worked together as a whole.  This man that I recall feeling close to yet had loathing for had come by me on the steps. Maybe I was waiting for him. Hard to know what my little five year old brain was thinking.  I have no recollection of asking him. The only memory I have is sinking my teeth into the soft flesh of his hand between his thumb and forefinger. Once my teeth clamped down I just wanted to keep biting harder and harder not letting go. A voice in my head said I couldn’t. It would hurt him I thought. I need to let go I thought. Yet my jaw was locked into the bite. I don’t recall him making a sound. I just clenched my jaw, sunk my teeth in trying to hard not to go too far. Not to bite too hard. My teeth marks were there to stay. Little teeth indentations in dark shades of purple. I don’t recall having any repercussions from that action. I suppose the fact that I had asked permission and he’d said yes was enough. As a youth I wondered what would have caused that want in me as a young child. Did he do bad things to me? I would never know.

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As a youth of the streets my mother would cry out for prayers for her wayward  daughter. Why was she gone, why did she deny the Lord, why was she a herion addict and drug user, as loose woman. Ironically I never touched herion, didn’t really do hard drugs, didn’t drink often and always choose to do it safely where some pervert couldn’t get me. My mother and the leaders of the school never once mentioned I had been denied return to the fold. Never admitted to the community I had come back begging to live with my mother to be one of them again. Promising to be a devote follower and never question them again.

So I wondered. Mother wondered. Others wondered what could have happened to me as child to cause me to turn my back on God, on life in the community, on my family. Who could have hurt me so. Was it the man that I bit, some other man who lived in our home. No one  not even me thought maybe it was being turned away from my own mother. Being sent away as an unwanted bothersome thing. No one thought what internal damage that trauma might cause my already aching heart.

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I will never know why I bit him. Maybe it doesn’t matter. I may never know why I did many of the things that I did. I now know that the biggest hurt of all even more than my father, was being turned away by my own mother and the community I was born into.

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childhood, Free thinking, Mind play, New years, Parenting, resolutions, Uncategorized, writing

New Years

2018 is almost upon us. A time for a fresh start to many. I didn’t grow up celebrating the new year that I can recall.  I would laugh when I wrote the previous years number down as we all do from time to time. As a youth holidays were always very hard as I strongly felt the pain and loneliness of not having a family that wanted me enough. Yet New Years never bothered me. It was a time to work for extra pay. Or for that guaranteed day off. I never got the big deal about it and to tell the truth still do not.

I do not need to wait for a new year to resolve to change or be a better person. That is something I endeavour every day and hope that we all do. Learning new things, pushing my boundaries, trying to be a better mother, partner, friend, employee, person as a whole is a daily effort that I do not want to ever stop trying for.

I started this blog in the late summer in hopes of using this platform as a tool to help me write. It is hard to write about the past. The stories do not fall out all nice in chronological order with proper grammar and language. The depth of emotion that was felt is not easily described.  The telling of stories with a friend over a cup of coffee or glass of wine does not a writer make.

I will not stop writing my story. I will not stop striving to be more active and out in nature. I will never stop trying to be a better mother, friend, person. I may stumble and fall but I will get back up again. New Years day or not.

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childhood, Free thinking, gardening, homemade, natural living, Parenting, Uncategorized

Buried carrots

As I stood at the sink washing the carrots from my garden I remembered all the buried carrots from my child hood.  Quite literally. You see when I was about five my parents worked the market gardens as they called them for the community.

If you haven’t read anything previous from my blog… I was born into a self supporting community. There are many titles that can describe the life I was born into. Today we will stick with simply self supporting. Other days …

We had large personal gardens and separate fields for community market gardens for income. Other things were started and some stuck. Sawmill, granary, bakery, cookbooks, juice, and charcoal to name a few. Adults from all over came to live and work in the community for various reasons.  Some came from as far away as China others from much closer.  They came for different reasons. To hide, get away, to learn a different way of life, to sober up from an addiction, to pursue a relationship with this particular way of being a christian. The labour was always welcome. New believers were accepted with open arms. Provided you adapt to the lifestyle of course.

I digress, back to the carrots. I remember how very cold it was. Stamping my little feet, jumping and swinging my arms to get the blood pumping.  My nose either exposed to the freezing cold or wet and humid behind a muffler. The beauty of the crisp fall did little to help me forget my frozen fingers as we sorted the wet carrots pouring out from the tumbling drum. Cold water, cold carrots, cold air. Cold that gets into your bones and never lets you warm up. Holding our hands over the fire barrel trying to thaw some feeling back into them. There were a few of us children ‘helping’ the adults work. We were given the odd coloured carrots, yellow or purple ones. I would pretend the carrot was a doll and make up great stories.  If it wasn’t so cold I would have been tempted to nod off as I waited for them to finish for the night.

Why they harvested the carrots and then buried them deep underground with a back hoe I can only guess. Twice the labour and a cold unpleasant work environment. They must have determined it was not the greatest way for it only happened that one winter. Buried carrots is a memory I will never forget.

childhood, Free thinking, natural living, Parenting, Uncategorized

Memories of christmas

Tis the season to reflect and give. Spend time with family and friends. Show a little extra love and caring to others. Give to the soup kitchens and homeless shelters; attend the toy drive or fill the bus fund raiser.  Enjoy indulgent foods, sip on mulled wine, egg nog, or make that special thing you having been wanting to try. Time for me to spend a little time reflecting on child hood Christmas past.

We celebrated Christmas but not in an extravagant way. I’m not sure if this was because of religious views taken or the very real lack of money. Either way It wasn’t a time of baking of treats and decorating the house and yard. It was a time to give and to reflect on the birth of Christ more than anything.

Don’t get me wrong there was laughter and joy ,carolling and excitement. Delicious food to eat if you didn’t know better (humorous probably only if you’ve eaten that food). Carmel popcorn balls, carob coconut balls, gluten steaks ( yes Gluten ), and roasted vegetables from the garden. We had presents wrapped up under the piano bench. The fern plant proudly acting as our tree. Undecorated to be sure. Wool socks and Pear soap for gifts were a ritual. As the years went by washing machine and rototiller were the big splurge gifts. I did love to rototill the garden. One of my favourite gifts I recall as a little girl was the flour sifter. Shaped like a measuring cup but with a handle inside the other to be squeezed. When I would squeeze it the inside liner would spin and flour would fall from the outer screen. Quite fun for a little girl when compared to the socks and soap.

One year was super exciting as we got a box in the mail addressed to us all for Christmas from moms sister. The wrapping paper was taped to the box and also glued to the box from the inside. We were laughing at how serious auntie took testing our ability to open the gift. Turns out she had gotten mom real Canadian maple syrup and the jar had broken in transit. The entire contents of the box was a dried syrupy mess. The lovely white and yellow sweater she had knitted me was now a brownish stained mess. I was heartbroken. The excitement of opening the gift had turned to disappointment that everything was ruined. Mom promised she would do her best to wash the sweater out for me so that it would be good as new.

I was probably ten the first time we got a tree. D – swore it fell off the back of a truck he was driving behind. I was so excited to finally have a Christmas tree. We strung popcorn onto thread for decorations. Popping as many kernels into my mouth as I put onto the string. Ribbon from the sewing box was brought out to add some colour. After that year I  think we had a tree a few more times. The plant for a tree had finally been replaced thanks to the jolly friend who insisted the tree fell from a vehicle on the highway and would go to waste if we didn’t take it.

Ironic to me dad’s reason for not wanting to cut down a tree. He said we didn’t need to cut one down as it would kill it. Fun fact about dad, he loved nature. Hiking, camping, canoeing, survival skills, you name it he did it or had it on his bucket list. We went survival camping a few times a year. In fact the first few years of my childhood we lived in a teepee in the forest for a week or two at Christmas time. The building of a teepee included cutting down a minimum of six trees per shelter never mind the boughs cut to make our beds and insulate the walls. Yet we didn’t cut a singular tree for christmas. Priorities I guess. ( this is where I want to say lol and put a wonky smiley face but apparently that isn’t proper writing )

Anyway it sure made for a memorable day when D came with a tree for us. I can still picture him with his thick dark hair all wild in need of a hair cut. Wearing his lumberjack clothing covered in saw dust standing in the kitchen saying if we didn’t take the tree it would just go to waste. Doing the good old guilt trip in front of the three kids – one old enough to speak up – that would be me! That Christmas was probably the first and third only time I celebrated with a tree, parents, and food.

I searched thru all the old photos but the slides. The slides I haven’t completed capturing with the projector. No where have I found photo’s of holidays accept below. The first Christmas not living at home. First Christmas since dad passed. For whatever ever else there is to say about mom she was a tough cookie that year taking a van full of Japanese teenagers, her 3 toddlers, and angry teenager out camping int the bush with guns!

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childhood, Free thinking, homemade, natural living, Parenting, Uncategorized

Birthdays

Since it’s my birthday today and I’m sitting in an arcade with my son whose playing games while we wait for his sister before going to dinner, it seems fitting to write about birthday’s since I’ve had a few now.

It’s funny I don’t remember birthday’s really, not very many anyway.  I don’t recall having parties as a child with friends over. There aren’t any photos of birthday parties so not sure if I had them and just don’t remember. There is so much I don’t remember. No one to ask really. I do have a photo of me with a cake for my first birthday.

On the back of the photo in moms handwriting is the date and, “First birthday eating popcorn, cake – banana walnut with date icing and banana ice cream on the side”.5972F22E-5A2D-4C33-A163-B01FCE6F6EDA 2

I know I got to choose my favourite meal and dessert on my birthday.  My seventh birthday is near the top for unforgettable childhood memories. I chose pizza bread for lunch, we didn’t eat dinner – two meals a day then. That was the year of the cold winter. More on that at a later date. I chose pizza toast. It was my absolute favourite meal. We didn’t eat real cheese as we didn’t eat dairy.  We usually we made it as rarely purchased pre-made food.  We blended cashews with water to make a paste, added some seasonings and skinned red peppers – voila cheese! I would carefully spread the pizza sauce over every inch of the bread and drizzle the cheese sauce on it. I’d sit outside  the oven door watching and waiting. My tummy rumbling with hunger as I waited for the cheese sauce to bubble. I loved meal time. We would sit and stuff ourselves as full as we could get for an hour for the next meal time would be in roughly seventeen hours. So there we were all seated at the table with our eyes closed for the blessing when the heavens opened up and ruined it all. I’ve never shut my eyes for prayer again!!

Let me take you back to that moment. There were probably 15 or more of us. Two full size tables set up like a T in the dining room. Three benches and multiple chairs. Two families plus the students that all lived in the home with us seated around the table. My little brother properly in his high chair instead of king toddler in the centre of the table. We all had our eyes closed listening to dad’s baritone rumbling the prayer of thanks. My tongue watering from the delicious smells wafting up from the table. When all of a sudden with a loud crack, snap, and woosh water came pouring from the ceiling all over the food, table, and us. It flooded the kitchen within a moment. The pipes had burst from the freezing cold winter. Unheard of in the hottest valley of British Columbia until my seventh birthday when I was dying to shove a piece of pizza into my mouth.

The disappointment and pain of hunger had tears threatening to spill. The fright of the ceiling giving way had me upset and unsure. Mom reassured me I would still get a piece of pizza as there had been a pan left warming in the oven for seconds.

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A fore mentioned brother sitting in the centre of the table. He would get so excited for that popcorn!

childhood, Free thinking, natural living, Uncategorized

My first home

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The first home I lived in was up on the side of a mountain. About a mile up a curvy bumpy dirt road with a corner dubbed ‘suicide corner’. I remember my dad driving the volvo backwards up the hill the entire mile or two with people sitting on the hood and bumper to give traction when the roads were really bad.

The view I grew up with those first few years had a big part in shaping my love of nature. I will always remember the lush green valley with the river snaking thru it like a path to the world. Few house were visible as far as the eye could see. Even now decades later there are few houses or farms to be seen in that valley. Untouched beautiful nature.

I must have been almost 6 when the phone lines were installed. I sat and bounced waiting and watching as each telephone pole came closer and closer up the mountain side. Imagine my excitement to lift the receiver and put my chubby little finger in the dial turning it round back all the way to the number I needed. Hearing the sound as it turned round back to start ready for me to spin it to the next number. It was so exciting to be able to call my best friend the lived at the bottom of the mountain. Sometimes I would carefully lift the phone to see if someone else was on the party line.

Our house was a big three story cedar home with large windows over looking the valley.  Scorch marks burnt into the large beams from when a fire started from the wood furnace threatening to burn the house to the ground.   There was a great stone hearth to sit by with a roaring fire on the cool winter evenings. I have fond memories of playing at that hearth.  My mother would sit at the old singer sewing machine across the room from the fireplace. Her back to the room her gaze looking out at the valley. I wonder what her thoughts were as she would sit and sew with me laying at her feet.

Free thinking, Mind play, natural living, Parenting

Losing your decisions

It’s funny. When you have to follow a routine; wake when your told, eat when your told, work, pray, read, free time when your told. When all of that is decided by ‘them’ there is no choice. On occasion I  was offered a choice and then had to do what they wanted me to do. When I asked why I had been offered a choice that wasn’t really there I was told I was to make the ‘right’  choice. My choice was only a figment, a tease, a mirage of options.

I asked many questions. I was a curious child. I  wanted to understand the world around me. The world that was created by them.That kept us in and separate from the evil. As a youngster I’m sure my questions were exhausting and annoying as any child’s are. The adults worked the fields, bakery, mill, and many other physical jobs required to keep the ‘self-supporting’ community running. I would ‘help’ and join in at the various jobs or sit and play with the odd coloured carrot or corn cob found.  As a pre pubescent teen my questions began to seem disrespectful and rebellious. At least that is what they said. I tend to think my questions began to be a concern for some.

If my father had lived I wonder if he too would have begun to question this blind following. This lifestyle he embraced and led others to join. The simple life that hid dangers, that wasn’t as simple as intended. Sometimes I wonder the things we would have had in common.

But I digress…

When you grow up with no real choices it can be overwhelming to have to make one. Much like walking into a market after spending time in a 3rd world country where they don’t have entire aisles devoted to different brands of the shampoo.

Choices can be scary. What if I make the wrong one. Which one should I make. When you never made any and then all of a sudden have to decide everything it can be daunting. Especially when there is no history no knowledge or experience of how to do so. It was  frightening to me as a teen all alone in the world. Those are different stories. Stories that may have been different had I been given choices. Taught how to make right and wrong decisions. For how can we learn without making wrong turns and learning from them.