High Hopes

One cool thing about getting married while you’re still a baby is that you can mark significant anniversaries typically celebrated only by old people. Last January, when I realized that October 1, 2022 will mark 45 years since our wedding day, and that it fell on the Saturday of a long weekend, I began to scheme. All I wanted was to have our kids and grandkids with us for a few days. Organizing a family photo shoot would be the icing on the cake.

Odds were against making this happen. Covid-19 was still raging. Some of our crew would need to travel from Alberta. It would mean pulling kids out of school. Coordinating it all felt insurmountable. But with nine months’ lead time, I decided to start planning, hoping the early notice would work in our favor.

Once I had all our kids at least semi-committed, I booked three nights at a friend’s cottage near Clear Lake. They warned us it was up for sale, but they’d take it off the market if it hadn’t sold by the end of April. I booked a photographer friend to join us for one of the three days. Although everything seemed set, I knew I would need to hold the whole plan with open hands so that it would be less painful if it fell apart.

It has indeed tried to fall apart several times.

First, a job loss resulted in a plummeting income. How could we afford this now? I never would have started planning had I known. We decided to wait and pray. Before long, we received an unexpected cash gift that would cover the cost. It was easy to decide what to earmark the money for. Onward and upward.

Then, our friends sold their cottage. I wanted to cry but prayed instead. I approached another friend with a cottage, expecting to hear they did not rent it out. It turned out their cottage was not only available to us but also had more to offer at less cost. We booked it.

Shortly after that, our Alberta kids learned they had to move. Given their time constraints and Calgary housing, there was a likely chance they would need to be moving the weekend of our anniversary and would not be making the trip. I prayed hard about this one because no amount of texting, phoning, or alternative planning on my part could fix it. But on July 29 our daughter texted that they’d be getting the keys to their new digs in mid-August, leaving plenty of time to settle in before heading for Manitoba. Yay!

Next, we learned our photographer may have to bow out due to a family health situation. This one is still up in the air and being prayed about. We may have to settle for trying to take our own pictures, but at least we’ll have made memories.

Getting this family together for a photo might be easier.

 Between the prayers and the problem-solving, I’ve been planning meals and activities for this event while still trying to “hold it loosely.” Is that even possible? Having it pried out of my hands at this stage would be painful for sure. But holding it so loosely that I fail to plan would mean it never happens. It reminds me of that old saying, “Plan like you’ll live forever, live like you’ll die tonight.”

Maybe only mothers of adult children can fully appreciate the value of and the longing for this type of gathering—especially those for whom it’s a rare occurrence. A dozen things could still go wrong and some of them probably will. The juggle and struggle between our expectations and our disappointments can feel like a high-wire tightrope act, can’t it? As much as I want everybody present, happy to be there, getting along with each other, and returning home feeling loved and blessed and glad they came—it’s out of my hands. Seems like a lot to ask. Seems like high hopes.

I’ll keep you posted.

My Stint in a One-Room School

It’s hard to imagine that less than 200 years ago, education was only for the rich. During the 1840s, Egerton Ryerson, a Methodist preacher and editor, was appointed superintendent of schools for Upper Canada. He introduced a public school system that was to be free, universal, and supported by taxation in order to be open to all. He insisted that education should have a religious foundation and include studies in grammar, geography, science, arithmetic, music, drawing, history, civics, nature study, physical training, and hygiene.

The idea was met with controversy. Not everyone valued education. Those without school-aged children balked at the idea of having to share the cost. Others saw education as a waste, especially for girls. (I, for one, am beyond grateful that clearer heads prevailed!)

Townships were divided into school districts, each led by elected trustees and having its own building and teacher. Attendance would be compulsory for children aged six through fourteen. Typically, a farmer would donate or sell a corner of his field for the school. A log shanty might be constructed, depending on resources. Some schools were built of brick and stone. In some remote areas of northern Ontario, they used train cars. By 1917, so many schools were going up as the west became populated that Eaton’s catalog offered a school kit in three different sizes. It included lumber, nails, hardware, insulation, and paint. The largest kit sold for $829.00.

Each district was charged with naming itself, and residents proved themselves creative. Near Ogden, now a suburb of Calgary, most citizens were employed by the Canadian Pacific Railway and wished to name their school after their employer. When they learned it would be illegal to use the CPR name, they chose to call their district “Cepeear,” pronounced exactly the same way.

Although many Canadians over sixty once attended a one-room school, few today can imagine how a teacher could handle eight grades at once or how any learning was accomplished. My own parents are both products of these schools, and all four of my older siblings attended one as well. By the time I grew old enough, we lived in town. 

Falmouth School, where my mom & siblings attended

I did, however, enjoy a four-day career as a one-room school student. With a February birthday, I would be approaching age seven by the time I was eligible to begin Grade One. My parents arranged for me to start a year early at a country school. Since several of the other students were my cousins, I did fine. When another parent complained, however, the trustees ended it. Rules were rules and I needed to wait another year before starting in the town school. That experience gave me a taste of country school. I remember best and appreciate most how the older children watched out for us little ones and everybody played together. With so few students, I suppose they had little choice, but I never witnessed this level of camaraderie again.

In “Syrup Pails and Gopher Tails: Memories of the One-Room School,” John C. Charyk shared his colorful experiences as both a student and a teacher. Students shared tasks such as hauling drinking water. In the early years, this might mean carrying full pails from a river a quarter of a mile away or hauling in ice blocks from the icehouse where they were packed in straw. For those who rode horses to school, stabling the horse and meeting its needs were also a part of their school day.

Teachers, some as young as eighteen, might have received only one year of training before being tasked with such an enormous responsibility. Each needed to serve not only as teacher of all subjects for all grades, but also as principal, school nurse, playground supervisor, Christmas concert organizer, office staff, and athletic coach. They often had to keep the stove going in winter, shovel snow, and more.

The one-room school proved that people can do hard things. Despite the many distractions, most students did receive an education. Some, like John Charyk, went on to become brilliant authors who recorded for future generations what life was like in a one-room school. 

 

Retreat!

If you’ve been reading this blog long, you know that once a year I offer a 26-sentence long fiction piece written in acrostic form, prepared for a contest but happily shared with you. For this year’s challenge, writers had to begin with the letter C and the first three words, “Cautious as ever…” Each subsequent sentence must begin with the next letter of the alphabet, starting over after Z and ending with B. My entry, which did not place in the contest, is called “Retreat!” I hope you enjoy it. Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. No animals or columnists were harmed in the writing of this story. No pets of any kind reside at the Todd home.

Cautious as ever, I dipped my big toe into the warm bathwater and swirled it around. Delightful bubbles danced across the surface, promising relaxation at last. Easing myself in, I allowed the warmth to envelop my weary body in luxury as I lay back, water to my chin. Fragrances of lavender and lilacs rose to greet my senses, saturating me with feelings of well-being. Gratitude filled my heart at this chance to unwind at the end of a stressful day. Hess’s calming Concerto for Piano and Orchestra released its healing magic from my iPad while candles flickered from the vanity.

I let out a soul-satisfying sigh, then snapped to attention at the sound of a familiar meow. Just as I opened my eyes, a streak of black fur hurdled the side of the tub, and my placid bath became a whirlpool of helicoptering legs, claws, ears, and whiskers. Katie, the shelter cat I’d brought home against my husband Zane’s wishes, had apparently come looking for my companionship, discovered the bathroom door unlatched, and received more than she’d bargained for. Leaping for the edge of the extra-deep tub, Katie lost her footing and slid back into my bathwater where she flailed for freedom. My arms, legs, and torso were immediately covered in bold red scratches. No matter how hard I tried to rescue her, Katie resisted my help and fought like the ferocious beast Zane had insinuated lurked beneath her innocuous exterior. 

Opie, our happy-go-lucky beagle, scampered in to see what all the ruckus was about. Panicking even more at the appearance of the dog, Katie lunged for my brand-new yellow shower curtain and clawed her way halfway to the top. Quadragenarian that I am, I managed to scramble to my feet. Reaching for the nearest towel, I struggled to maintain my balance while also calming the yapping canine and the yowling cat. Swoosh! The soothing bath product I’d added to the water had formed a slippery film under my feet and down I went. Unfortunately, Opie decided it was all a fun game and ran off with my towel as I grabbed for the shower curtain, only to have the whole rod crash down onto my head. Visions of stars and cats’ tails circled my face in a dizzying display as the first movement of the concerto reached its crescendo.

With all the grace only a sopping wet feline can muster, Katie leaped out from somewhere in the middle of the fallen curtain and sauntered out the now wide-open bathroom door as though she’d premeditated the entire show. Xanthous billows of curtain fabric enfolded all my limbs, pinning me against the side of the tub. Yellowish dye bled from the fabric, turning the water an obscene color I did not wish to bathe in.

Zane, his eyebrows reaching for his hairline, chose this moment to stick his head through the door and ask if everything was okay.

As humiliated as I felt, I remembered exactly why I’d married this man when he silently untangled the curtain, gallantly offered me a hand out of the tub, and lovingly wrapped me in a fluffy dry towel.

Bubble baths are overrated.