On my half-light bicycle ride through the country, every now and then a mystical fragrance collided with my nostrils. In response to this oh-so-pleasant surprise, I would inhale deeply, expanding my lungs to maximum capacity, then hold, sweetening my body from the inside-out. I pictured the balmy aroma traveling in a yellow waft first to my lungs, then to my heart and veins, moving ever outward toward my finger tips.

Aromatherapy in it’s purest form. 

Eventually I had to let go and exhale (quick, quick!) because I wanted another taste of this sweet air – another deep inhalation before the moment passed – or before I passed by this Linden tree and it’s tiny yellow flowers, flitting and blossoming in the July air. This kind of lopsided breathing (breathing deeply, holding, then exhaling too fast) could be a bad thing, but with the scent of Linden filling the air, it’s hard to see how.

This tree blossomed regardless of audience or accolade. A rather unassuming tree with branches and leaves as common as can be and flowers dangling from the stems like tiny yellow stars.

It consumes me. 

Or rather, I consume it. Really, there is not getting enough.

I circled back for another taste. This is how I roll on my bicycle. There’s no race, no direct route, agenda or plan. If I am caught by a sight, I stop. I snap a photo. If the air smells sweet, I circle back. If there are cows, I stop to moo at them. (Last night I was zapped by an electric fence while saying ‘hello’ to a cow. True story).

They say memories are strongest and most vivid when triggered by scent. The Linden reminds me of being a child, of walking arm in arm with my mother. It brings me back to Eutin, a small village in Germany I’m very fond of. Maybe it’s genetic. This same tree used to make my mother stop in her tracks. She would breath deeply, inhaling more than exhaling. Just like me. I can’t help it.

I want to eat the air. 

I see sunshine yellow when I breath their scent. I think of Mimosa blossoms – those pretty little pom-pom puffs of joy. And I think of bee honey – unpasteurized. Ahh, but the strongest resemblance is the delicate vanilla scent of an oncidium orchid – frilly and hand-painted with cocoa, wine, butter and sweet cream. You must nearly bury your nose into the flower to find the scent, but afterward … oh…

You can’t imagine breathing regular air anymore. 

Chocolate oncidium orchids can ruin you for ordinary, everyday breathing.

So can the Linden tree. It can make you want to save your breathing for only the good stuff – exclusively for wafts of sweet chocolate, vanilla, honey and sunshine.

I was in the waiting room, waiting. Across from me was a scruffy man, rather lanky yet muscular with rough and calloused hands. He had deep-set grooves in his face and a dark, thick-looking tan, the kind you would see on people in the Deep South. He and I were very different people. One thing I know about an emergency room – you need to make peace with the idea that you may be there for a while, so it’s best to make a few friends to help pass the time.

I asked the scruffy-faced man, so, what do you do

He was a Garbage Man.

I found out, first of all, it’s “Sanitation Engineer”, not Garbage Man. I said I was thrilled with the idea of having a conversation with an engineer. He laughed and rolled his eyes. “I still call myself a garbage man.” he said. I told him I was a “Botanical Engineer” but he could still call me a florist. We laughed about our titles and moved on. I asked him about the most interesting bit of garbage he’d put in his truck.

“The best stuff comes from Lakeshore Road by Lake Erie.”  How many times had he collected perfectly good toasters and other fine appliances from this stretch of road. “It’s a gold-mine down there”.

“Isn’t that stealing garbage?” I asked him. “I think that’s illegal”.

“Well, yes,” he said, “but there’s got to be something illegal about throwing out perfectly good stuff.” He told me what he doesn’t keep for himself he takes over to the pawn shop in Fort Erie and spends the cash at the local pub.  “No use throwing away good stuff” quietly adding “rich people” under his breath. I said there’s got to be some perks for such a hard occupation, so I guess there’s no harm, and yeah, I get it. Rich people. I hoped he didn’t think I was one of them.

He continued. “Aw, it’s not so bad. Mostly, it’s a good job, except for when you come across kitty litter. You can’t tell from the outside of the bag what’s inside the bag, and most of the time, garbage is garbage – it has a predictable weight. But, if there’s kitty litter in there, you won’t know until you’re grabbing the knot and go to heave it into the truck and it weighs a ton. If you get a tear in the bag, it’s goes spraying everywhere. I know guys who’ve hurt their shoulders from slinging kitty litter. So ya, I’d say, we have to look out for that, mostly. Everything else is just regular garbage.”

I told him I have a cat and put kitty litter out to the curb and from now on I will remember him when I do.

“There’s a woman on Lakeshore who won’t put out all of her garbage ahead of time. Not in the summer, anyway. She waits until the truck is on it’s way (you can hear it from pretty far-off) and makes us stand around while she saunters down the drive with a little bag in her hand. Normally, we’d just drive off, but this woman is worth the wait. She walks real slow in a bikini and high heels. We just stand and watch. It’s a nice little show for us. So that there’s a perk to the job, I’d say.”

Ever since that most-enlightening conversation with the Garbage Man Sanitation Engineer, I often wonder what stories are hidden in people, if only I asked. How many times have I been completely shocked at the assumptions I’ve made based on someone’s appearance or manner of speaking. At times, the most quiet and ordinary of people turn out to be the ones with the best stories. How many times have I simply “not asked”? Even my own family. You never know who somebody is or how interesting they are until you ask.

Hello! Who are you?

Wouldn’t it be great if we could skip the surface conversation and get right to the heart of the matter? I have always suffered from an immense aversion to smalltalk. How could I possibly truly care about how you are if I haven’t the slightest clue who you are?

One time I conducted an experiment and decided to answer the question “How are you?”  with raw, real honesty. For a short time I replied with a report on my emotional status, physical ailments and momentary state of mind. It went something like this:

“How are you?”

“I’m glad you asked. I’m feeling rather overwhelmed today. I was wondering what are the five stages of grief. Or is it seven? I can’t recall and it’s making me crazy. Also, I seem to have a bit of gout in my left foot which is causing me limp a bit. Although, it’s not too bad. I shouldn’t complain and yet, I do.

Responses were, at best, unsatisfying and, at worst, extremely awkward, usually ending abruptly with me asking the question I abhor “ And how are you?” Then we’d part ways, all parties feeling a little assaulted.

Perhaps it was unfair to conduct a social experiment in the first place. Perhaps I should start accepting the social norms of our society. I need to understand most people really don’t care about how other people are. “How are you?” is just an empty question which deserves an empty answer and that’s fine.  If this is how our society stays civil and keeps people from killing each other, I’m all in.

One time I heard a documentary featuring the author Charles Montgomery who wrote a book called “Happy City”. (http://www.cbc.ca/books/2014/09/happy-city-transforming-our-lives-through-urban-design.html) He talked about how cities can be designed to help us, as people, to be happy. Turns out the happiest neighbourhoods in the world all have one commonality. A town centre. A place where all the streets intersect. That’s all. Just a place for the community to wander in and out of on a daily basis, bumping into each other, asking each other questions such as “How are you Mrs. Smith? Oh, I’m just fine, thank you.” A place where you see familiar people every day and talk about nothing at all.

Apparently, that’s the secret to happiness.

I couldn’t be more unsettled about this bit of news; it seems as though happiness has nothing to do with depth of conversation, but everything to do with superficiality.

I’ve thought about this a bit (actually a lot) and haven’t come to any conclusion, but I wonder if a town centre helps you feel less invisible. Montgomery also talked about our need for community. I like to think that, in a community, a person can become known, mainly because you bump shoulders so often. With enough interactions, it’s possible to develop a depth of knowledge about the people around you. Not exactly intimate, but if you went missing or died in your sleep, people would notice and they might even know how to find you.

I met a man who told me it had been years since any of his family had asked him how his work was going or about anything else important in his life. He was saddened by their general lack of interest. He admitted there’d been nothing ground-breaking in a long while; work was steady. Nothing exciting enough to just blurt out. He doesn’t want to be a bore talking about himself, but yes, it would still be nice if someone showed interest.

I wonder if the man was sad because he felt unnoticed or maybe even invisible. He said it would be nice if someone asked him something, sometime. The solution seems so simple and straightforward.

Not that long ago I heard a great little phrase: To see is to love.

To see is to love. Could it be that to listen is to love? Or to ask a question is to love?

Opening ears and eyes and heart … is to love?

The pendulum swings wildly back and forth, creating extremes – always seeking a balance. It used to be that I didn’t speak at all. Perhaps I didn’t feel my voice had a place in the world.  Old habits, especially emotional ones, are hard to let go of. I, like the sad man, am still very sensitive to the horror of not being interesting. These days, I’m keenly aware of speaking too much. I’m exploding with bottled up questions and thoughts and stories.

I have to admit, I don’t know how to do this listening thing very well. Worse, is question-asking. More than anything, I want to be seen and known, to not be misunderstood.  I forget that everyone else around me is seeking the same outcome. We are all trying to explain ourselves to our world. I’m writing and talking and talking and explaining, almost frantically. The pendulum has swung very far.

I often forget there is a breathing out and a breathing in.

An exhale and an inhale. Speaking and listening. Expression and impression.

The Golden Rule is usually a reliable reminder of how to be. Treat others as you would wish to be treated. In other words, if I want to be listened to, I ought to listen to other people.

All this to say, I am trying to find a balance between speaking and listening.

Also, I’m trying to learn what it is to love, practically speaking. For now, I’m holding onto (and digging into … trying to understand) this beautiful phrase: to see is to love.

I’m also wishing Jordan Station had a Town Centre. We have the Post Office and that’s doing the job for now, but a Town Centre would be amazing. I think the orchard in the middle of town is for sale …

About the bee sting? It got better. I didn’t die. Thanks for asking!

———————————————————————————————————————

From the book “Happy City” by Charles Montgomery:

As much as we complain about other people, there is nothing worse for mental health than a social desert. The more connected we are to family and community, the less likely we are to experience heart attacks, strokes, cancer and depression. Connected people sleep better at night. They live longer. They consistently report being happier.

———————————————————————————————————————

P.S. Credit for the phrase “To see is to love” goes to Jack Gibb. (and Tim Arnold for bringing the phrase to my attention in the first place). Thanks!!!

Enter Maddie – an adorable eight year old, cuter than pie with a set of sturdy Mennonite genes to make my zweiback-baking mother proud. We signed her on in a heartbeat and promised to pay her in dried cherries.

I have a few pictures of my mother, Monika, from the 1940’s and in all of them, which span several years, she is wearing the same dress, as though she didn’t grow at all in that time period (which might be true – that’s what happens when one is malnourished).

Both my mother and grandmother were seamstresses and, most likely, my grandmother sewed the original version of this dress.  The nostalgia factor from having the dress hand-sewn by me (daughter and granddaughter) was obvious and therefore an absolute must. I jumped on my sewing machine immediately.

Monika,10 years old with her friend, Heinrich.

The next day Maddie was wearing the dress. It has gathered sleeves, a gathered waist and some giant pockets on the front that could potentially hold a lot of cookies. I explained to her that she may not like the plain old dress – it’s not fancy (post-war) … no sparkles … but before long she was doing twirls and smiling from ear to ear. I put her hair up in a roll at the top with two braids and she was set.

And there you have it! The making of Little Monika. It wasn’t long before we were traipsing through the pathways, trails and brooks around my home with one simple set of instructions for Maddie. Be cheerful and little bit mischievous. Oh, and steal a few cherries, if you don’t mind. 

The whole day, Maddie indulged us with being her lovely, cheerful self. She skipped and ran through the forest. She waded through a creek over slippery, mossy rocks. She sat on a log for us, her feet dangling in the brook. She stole a whole bunch of dried cherries and in doing so decided that she definitely prefers dried ones to “real” ones. Stolen treats always taste better than respectfully procured ones – that’s my experience.

Even though our filming with Maddie is mostly done, we haven’t seen the last of that dress. I have reason to believe a certain very excited 8 year old girl will be dressing up as Little Monika for Halloween this year.

Adorable.

Chances were the outer doors would be locked, but when I pulled on the handle, the entrance cracked open revealing a small foyer. Feeling rather fortunate, I slipped inside. The second set of doors were much older, heavier and crafted of solid wood. Their patina spoke of centuries of wear. These ancient doors seemed to challenge me as if to say, “Go ahead, see if you’re brave enough … open Us.” I tugged the handle just to see if it would budge. Sure enough, a sliver of openness emerged between the doors and a woman’s song rippled out on sound waves to meet me.  All that brick, stone and wood had contained her voice until the moment I’d broken the seal. Tentative, I let the door go. I had no business creeping into a church I’d never been to before. What if I was caught? How would I explain myself when I couldn’t even speak the native language? The door slid shut with a quiet thump returning to it’s original position, once again containing the song on the inside, me on the outside.

In the end, any potential consequences were not enough to sway my curiosity. I took a deep breath and considered my options. I was only here for a short time and if I didn’t go in now, I might miss my chance. Once more I pulled the handle and, this time, I slipped inside, unseen.

There was a shadow shrouding the sacred space like a fine mist. That same voice continued, much louder now that I was inside the church. It permeated the sanctuary and, like a flood, it washed over me, overtaking me. The song, the voice – the music was everywhere at once, bouncing off the stone and wood facades, and yet without the cacophony that echoes sometimes develop. The sound was clear. Perfect.

Her contralto voice was rich and full as she sang what sounded to me, like opera. The notes equally as beautiful as they were haunting. Certainly there was a physical body to go along with the ghostly voice, but she was nowhere to be seen.

I tucked into a pew and absorbed my surroundings or at least what I could in the dim light. Above me, the ceiling reached way up past baroque style columns that curved and stretched from the top all the way down to the stone floor. A single chandelier was suspended in the centre – a simple and uncomplicated design that appeared more modern that it’s surroundings. The pews carried on in front of me in rows, about a dozen or so. It wasn’t a large church. I noticed there must be two wings at the front, on either side of the altar. A solitary beam of sunlight pierced the stained glass windows behind the altar, particles of dust bouncing around in it’s path.

Taken altogether, the church was a mass of stone, concrete, wood and glass. A cold place, if not for the warm contralto voice which continued it’s grip, fixing me in it’s trance.

Questions swirled in my head. Where was the beautiful voice coming from? I looked everywhere and saw no evidence of a person. Am I trespassing? 

The awe-inspiring nature of this scene wasn’t lost on me. I decided, regardless of my questions, I would document the moment. I pointed the lens of my phone to the light at the front, capturing the windows, the sunbeam, the altar. I snapped the pews and all of the details around me including the gold painted accents on the columns. I wanted to remember it all. This scene of me in this wondrous church with this incredible invisible singer was something I imagined sharing with my friends and my husband when I returned home.

I had just flown in from Hamburg the night before and had hardly been in this little town for 24 hours. I was sleep deprived from an exhausting trip that should have taken 12 hours at most, but somehow became nearly 40 hours, door to door. Still, I was elated to be here in this town that my mother perpetually told me stories about. The town where she spent three years of her childhood, from age eight to eleven, where she was layered with enough experiences to last her a lifetime. This was the town where my mother was orphaned and her mother (my grandmother) was buried.

I had spent the afternoon of my first day in Eutin traipsing through the snow-covered cemetery desperately trying to find the location of my grandmother’s bones. As far as I could tell, nothing remained but an unmarked grave in an unknown location. The stone my mother installed had, by now, disappeared.

I was devastated.

In some unrealistic sense, if I were to actually “think” about it, my expectations for this visit were way off. Sitting in that church pew, an overwhelming feeling of disappointment and loneliness took hold. The melancholy notes of the invisible singer perfectly echoed my emotional sentiments. I was beginning to accept the cold facts. I would never meet my grandmother, my Oma. She was gone. My mother, even though I so badly wanted to find her here … well, she was gone too. Both had been gone a seriously long time. Sometimes the simplest of ideas are the hardest to grasp. I was alone here in Eutin.

Now, in that pew, I was beginning to comprehend the vast difference between my expectations and reality. It was disheartening. Still, I missed my Oma (who I had never met) so intensely that I felt an ache in my heart. It didn’t make any sense to miss someone I never even knew.

The contralto voice, still unseen, broke into my thoughts bringing me back to my senses, to the here and now. Her singing truly was a gift. I imagined her voice as though it was a series of waves crashing onto a shore, permeating the space I was in, echoing, expanding, bouncing and retreating.

It became a conscious effort to move myself from unreality to reality. To become a part of the present moment rather than merely an observer, disconnected from the experience I was in. Perhaps my exhaustion and loneliness helped as I attempted to let my guard down and allow the notes to affect me. I held onto my vision of the singer’s voice – as though her notes were waves crashing, rushing toward me, bouncing off my skin, filling my eardrums, sinuses and my head. I envisioned the sound affecting me, becoming a part of my being. I became “open” and allowed it to be so.

The tears were falling for some time before I noticed, the dark wet circles expanding on my lap. I was lonely, tired, disappointed and broken. I was raw and spent. Vulnerable. Cracked open and helpless.

In that moment, everything changed.

That’s when I heard my Oma, her contralto voice singing melancholy songs into the inky darkness of an open-box car. The two of them, mother and child, riding the rails. Escaping tanks. Bombs lighting up the night sky behind them. Her voice a comfort. A salve.

It wasn’t her voice, but it was her voice. That’s what my ears heard, what my heart heard. As much as it didn’t make sense, it did. A sacredness settled over me as I continued to allow the music, that beautiful voice, to move me, heal me, soothe me.

It would seem, after all, I had met my Oma here. Not in the way I imagined or hoped for. Not in person. But I felt her spirit, her energy, her voice. Another gift.

I slipped out of the church the same way I had come in. Unseen. My heart, previously broken and depleted, was now filled to overflowing with gratefulness.

There’s something about this town, Eutin.

There’s something about the energy here. There’s a sound. An echo that still rings out with the voices of the people I love and miss so dearly. I want to hear them. I want to listen. I promise to be open.

I promise to come back soon.

Photo courtesy of Nataschia Wielink Photo and Cinema

The truth is that I haven’t been honest about what’s going on in my life. Telling the truth requires bravery and it’s taken me a while to muster up the strength.

I’m quitting.

Yes, it’s true. After twenty years in in flowers, including thirteen years of operating my business (Mimosa Flower Studio), I’m getting out.

I’ve heard it said that the best time to quit is before you wish you had and while you still have a good relationship with your career.

I’m at the point where I am longing for change in many ways. Firstly, I wish to reclaim to those three missing seasons – Spring, Summer and Fall. I long to make spring plans, do summer-like activities and generally act like normal people do when the sun shines. It’s a small thing, I know, but something I will never take for granted. I look forward to this summer – the first in twenty years that won’t be bogged down with schedules and long hours on weekends.

Creativity. That’s the other big hole I find myself longing to fill. I know it may seem unbelievable to those who look at the floral business from the outside and assume it’s non-stop creativity, surrounded by fresh flowers, sunshine and rainbows. Here’s something that might shock you – the floral world is more about business than it is about creativity. At least that’s how it is when you are the owner. I recall many times in the studio, when I would be jealous of my employees who were able to design non-stop, while I busied myself with phone-calls, meetings and general organization (boring!). If you know me at all, you also know those are not my strengths. In fact, it’s kind of laughable that I have been able to manage a successful business for thirteen years with so little interest in administration. Go ahead, laugh… it’s okay. I don’t mind. We’re laughing together.

So, simply put, I am longing for more. More creativity and expression.  I have spent my entire life dabbling in the arts (outside of the flower world). I sew, write and paint. I’ve tried my hand at many skills including stained glass, pottery and wood-working. I hope to do much more of all of these things in the future – to grow my skills and talents so I can be more expressive. Who knows what this will lead to. For now, I am content to enjoy the journey and see what comes of it. There’s a beauty in learning the art of play once again. 

At the same time that I have been longing for more, I have also wanted less. Less business. Less busyness. Less materialism. Less ‘stuff’ that has, increasingly over the years, become shallow for me. I want to be less confined by the box that I’ve slowly allowed myself to become accustomed to over the years. I look forward to expansion by moving out of the box and testing the limits of what I’m capable of.

Shutting down my business has already been a year in the making. It was last April that I made the decision and since then I have been turning away clients on a daily basis. The truth is, my business is at an all time high. The amount of work I’m turning away is plentiful and it kills me every time. It’s not been easy … AT ALL. In fact, it might be the hardest thing I have ever done. 

Something I wrote in my journal a few days ago: “It’s like saying “no” a thousand times. Literally”.

Here’s a quote which has helped to give me perspective: “It’s easy to say NO when you have a bigger YES.”

While it’s seems massively wasteful to close down and walk away from a perfectly amazing business, I am doing so with a bigger YES in mind.  Every day I get up and tell myself that it all makes sense, that the plan is good and that the bigger waste is to NOT make a change with my life. 

One of my hopes in sharing this very personal journey is to inspire you. Perhaps you have also been holding onto a pattern of living or a job and it’s not (maybe never has been) who you are or who you want to be. Maybe, like me, you have been too scared to jump out of the safety net into the big blue sky, stretch your wings and see what you’re made of.

I recently came across these words that say it all:

“It’s always better to be at the bottom of the ladder you want to climb than the top of the one you don’t.”

As I explore this new chapter in my life, I have a bunch of projects on the go which I am excited about!

1. www.cherriesinthesun.com. This blog (which you are at right now) is a project which I started in order to expand my writing skills while learning how to express myself. It has reflections and stories of my own life as well as my mother’s. It’s a work from the heart, plain and simple
2. A documentary. I am working with Mike Enns (www.ennsvisuals.com) on a project which involves a trip to Germany this June. We’ll be staying in a small town called Eutin and (in between beers and schnitzel) we’ll be putting together a beautiful film to share the journey that I have been on over that last few years. You can see a small teaser here http://www.cherriesinthesun.com/just-a-tease/
3. The HandMade Market. Many of you know about this small artisan market that my husband and I produce here in Niagara (www.handmademarket.ca). This is a work borne out of passion for the arts which the two of us have built from scratch. The first market was in our home way back in 2009. It’s grown in leaps and bounds (to our pleasant surprise!) and we are very excited about what the future holds.
4. If you are a florist or in the wedding industry, I have a project in the pipeline that might be of interest to you. Sporting a working title of “Love Letter to a Wedding Florist”, I’m writing a book of reflections and lessons from my twenty years in the industry. This project will be personal, raw and honest. Stay tuned for more details!

Just before I turn to step out of the world of flowers and weddings for good, I want to acknowledge my peers in the industry. I have made some incredible friends over the years – many that have been close, loyal, incredibly supportive and just generally amazing. It’s difficult to realize that we won’t be crossing paths regularly anymore … at the back of a church or a loading dock or at a wedding show or in the cooler in Mississauga amidst the buckets of blooms while we’re literally freezing our butts off.

To all my flower/wedding/event friends: I will miss our shared community terribly. I already do.

I’m filled with pleasant memories, fondness and hope for the future.

Jennifer

——————————————————————————————–

P.S. Clearance Sale. April 26 at the studio here in Jordan.

——————————————————————————————–

INVENTORY CLEARANCE SALE

ONE DAY ONLY • EVERYTHING MUST GO

Saturday, April 26 • 11:00–3:00

(Click here to view the pre-view catalogue > http://bit.ly/1oj3Sef ) 

——————————————————————————————–

My first oil painting circa 1990 (24 years ago!). (Inspired by a Thomas Kincade original)

In the autumn of 1990 when I was in grade ten, my mother surprised me with a question. Out of the blue she asked “Would you like art lessons?”

Me: What?!

Her: Art lessons!

Me: I thought we were broke?

And we were broke, but she insisted, and anyway, it was only fair because my sister had piano lessons, I should have lessons too, she reasoned.

A logical conclusion.

Still, it didn’t make a whole lot of sense. But that was my mother … logic didn’t always apply.

At that time, I had a bus pass for getting around the city, which I appreciated greatly since our 1984 Hyundai had recently experienced a horrific and painful demise. Cause of death: A seized transmission. Reason: No one wanted to talk about that, but it had something to do with fluid – or lack of it. My mother cashed it in for scrap metal and from that point on, my sister and I became well acquainted with public transportation and highly skilled at “bumming rides”.

Then my mother got some bad news from the doctor. The cancer was back and it had travelled since it’s first visit 10 years earlier. This time, it made residence in her bones, settling in for an extended visit. The four of us – my mother, my sister, the cancer and I – had no car, no money and a whole lot of bad news to distract us from feeling sorry for ourselves. So we kids did what anybody would do in our circumstance – we focused our attention on piano and painting, while my mother put all of her extra energy into lunch dates and musical concerts with her friends. I wasn’t entirely sure that this was the smartest thing to be doing, but it did make us feel a little better.

I really didn’t need much time to think about the art lessons. I had heard that local painter Ann LeFrancois taught privately. Immediately, I began Thursday night classes. At the time, I didn’t compute that the $40 per lesson rate was equivalent to our entire weekly grocery budget!! (That’s about $75 today!).

Sometimes, I walked the one hour distance, but when the sun was low in the sky and the sidewalk snow-covered, I used my bus pass to get to Ann’s basement art studio. I never missed a class. Nothing could keep me away from the bliss of being there. Using oil paints for the very first time, my easel and canvas propped in front of me, paints and brushes to my right, it was nothing short of heaven.

I had asked my mother what she thought I should paint and she suggested I attempt to replicate a Thomas Kincade painting of an english cottage scene with a stone pathway, gate and lantern surrounded by a sea of wildflowers.  It would seem that the english cottage was a dream of hers and this was her best shot at realizing it – by having her 15 year old daughter attempt to paint it. On a canvas. For her, dreaming of a better life was serious business – especially when charming cottages and fields of blooms were at stake. I said I would do my best and that it would be for her.

The giant white canvas that I was given in my class was very intimidating and I have to admit that I was pretty scared to touch it. I worried that dipping my paintbrush into the paint and pressing it to the pristine canvas would sully it. We might all be better off if the canvas stayed white, clean and perfect.

Still, I dipped and brushed. Soon I found myself in a beautiful rhythm, a bubble of space and time where it was just me, my brush and that canvas moving in unison toward a common goal.

Every now and then, Ann, my teacher, would stand beside me to give valuable pointers. She was a woman of few words, but what she spoke I can still remember today.

In her French accent she said, “A painting is made from many tiny brushstrokes. Pay attention to each one and make it beautiful.”

At first I didn’t fully get what she meant.

As the sun continued to sink into winter weariness, I was traveling to and from my class in darkness. Gradually though, an understanding was dawning. The awareness that each time I mixed the colour, dipped and brushed that little blob of paint onto the canvas, it was IMPORTANT. The detail of each single brush stroke mattered very much. Each one needed to stand on it’s own merit.  It’s as though the painting would collapse if it didn’t have proper support from the details.

At the same time, I had to mind the big picture. I shouldn’t let myself get so wrapped up in the details so as to forget to take a step back. She directed me to squint my eyes a little bit to make the picture hazy. Fuzzy-like, I would see the colours and balance in a very different way. Less judgmental, perhaps. That was important too.

Ann drilled these ideas into me during my lessons. Week after week she would repeat the same words to me until it began to sink in. Mind the details. Mind the big picture.

The details WERE the big picture. 

A little pebble in my pocket, I have carried this bit of advice with me into my adult life and working career and have found it to be an eternally applicable concept. Her words have come to me quietly while creating countless floral bouquets and centrepieces. In moments of frustration or lack of focus, I hear her voice – the end result is only as strong and as beautiful as the details. Knitting, sewing, painting, gardening … even life. Whatever the practice or however insignificant the moment may seem, Ann’s advice resonates and continues to be fresh and poignant. I truly need those words … and that’s precisely why I remember them.

Ann’s guidance was definitely worth the $40 per week that my mother sacrificed.  Honestly, I don’t know how she afforded those lessons, but I’m certainly glad she did. At a time when she had every good reason to be more prudent with money, she splurged. It didn’t make sense, but that’s exactly what makes my mother’s actions so beautiful to me. I see her love for me in the nonsense. She cared enough to nurture my artistic passion to the point of senselessness. She also had her own experiences. Or lack of them. She knew first-hand what was at stake when when creativity was oppressed.

When the snow melted and the daffodils were starting to push up in little mounds by the sidewalk, my work of art was dry and ready to travel. The painting and I voyaged together one evening on the city bus. My mother had no idea what to expect since I hadn’t brought it home once in all that time.  When she finally saw it, her heart nearly burst open with pride. Maybe she even forgot about the cancer for a split second. Her english cottage was finally a reality and, for her, it was perfect.  She had it framed and hung it in the most prominent place in our house – the front foyer. My mother made it her mission to immediately inform everyone who passed through the front door about the picture hanging on the wall and the fact that her daughter had painted it.

I still have the painting and while it’s never going to hang in a museum (or even a prominent place in my own home), it continues to brings me joy. Mainly because it reminds me of what I learned when I painted it.

Empty canvases. Tiny brushstrokes. Ticks on a clock. Moments added together, gradually becoming something beautiful. My life, a work of art.

I wonder what Ann, the art teacher, would think. Twenty-four years later her words continue to impact me both creatively and philosophically. It would seem that the money was spent wisely after-all.

I can hear my mother saying “Well, that was good bang for the buck!”

Monika, 10 years old

The heavy wooden doors banged ominously behind her as Monika walked out onto the front steps of the school. Tilting her head skyward, she dug her hands deep into the pockets of her wool coat. What sort of adventure could she experience before the sun settled in for it’s slumber tonight? The sun hardly stayed out long enough to allow for much fun on these winter days.

“Monika, make sure you’re back at the orphanage before it gets dark! The days are getting shorter and you can’t waste so much time anymore”. Maria sounded more stern than she meant to be. She was aware her daughter had a habit of wandering about the little town, discovering new places, watching ducks on the sea or spying on weary travelers at the train station for hours on end. She knew her daughter well. They were cut from the same cloth.

She hoped her daughter would remember to stop by for a short visit at the hospital this afternoon. In anticipation, she’d requested to be brought down to the front room to wait. If Maria had her health, she would have liked the same kind adventures as her little Monika. And, if she were to be honest, Maria was a little bit jealous of her daughter, but she would never have admitted that to anyone. Instead, Maria lived vicariously through Monika’s stories. She always looked forward to afternoon visits when when her daughter would sit at her feet and chatter away.  Those precious and fleeting moments were stored carefully in her heart.

“Listen to your Mutti! When the clock tower bongs five times that means it’s time to find your Supper and Bed.”

Since arriving here as refugees after the war two years ago, the two of them had lived in so many places that Maria never used the word “home” anymore. It made sense to simply say “Supper and Bed”. Empty army barracks, the theatre by the castle, in the woods by the sea, Haus Rose and the hotel on the hill, all had been places for mother and daughter to find their Supper and Bed. These days Maria had her Supper and Bed in the hospital by the lake while her daughter had Supper and Bed in the orphanage by the tracks. Alone now, mother and daughter blinked back tears most nights. For Maria, the heartache of separation eclipsed the physical pain from cancer which consumed her body a little bit more each day.  Little Monika was filled with an innocent hope that one day she and her Mutti would be reunited. Mutti knew the truth of what was on the horizon. Her daughter needed to learn how to be on her own.

Monika had never been more displeased than with her current Supper and Bed. Supper at the orphanage was almost always thin soup. The women in the kitchen who peeled and cleaned the vegetables didn’t clean or peel very well at all. The result was a soup that had a heavy sludge at the bottom which reminded Monika of the sea shore at the edge of town. There was no escaping it, the sand was everywhere, even between the cobblestones. For avoiding sandy soup, front of the line was best, but Monika seemed to always be last in line, running into the dinner room late and in a flurry only to get scrapings at the bottom of the pot. She and sand were familiar and constant dinner companions.

Bed was even worse.  Monika scratched her skin red and raw from the itchy blanket.  Plus, she had to share it with another girl only 4 years old. Monika was nine and old enough to have her own bed now! She didn’t mind sharing a bed with Mutti though.  Her mother’s arm wrapping over Monika’s small frame, their bodies kept each other warm on cold nights. Mutti would sing quiet melodies that reminded Monika of the home that they left behind in the Ukraine. She would hum softly until her daughter’s eyelids became weighed down by drowsiness and her head sank heavily into the pillow. Sharing a bed with Mutti was nice. Sharing a bed with with a 4 year old bed-wetter was, well, not nice.

In ten days it would be Christmas! Monika skipped down the school steps and along the cobblestones singing carols and dreaming of the fun that would happen over the next few days.  This would be her second Christmas here in this town called Eutin.

As the holiday crept closer each day, the town seemed to get prettier. The windows of the big houses on Plöner Strasse had candles in them who’s warmth cleared round circles on the icy glass panes. Monika liked to peer through to see the families inside, laughing, reading and playing. There were christmas trees in corners and cookies on trays. Sometimes a cat was curled up by the fireplace. She wondered what it would be like to be in a place like that. Maybe one day when Mutti is better we will be a family in a house too, she thought. For now, Monika had to get used to the orphanage.

“You’d better learn the rules, Monika, just like I have to get used to the hospital. This is the way it is”.

Mutti’s words equally hurt and scared Monika. She knew her mother told the truth, but she still believed things would change, no matter what Mutti said. They had to. Monika was a prisoner in the orphanage and she knew Mutti felt the same about the hospital. Neither of them were accustomed to so many rules and regulations.

Strolling and singing, Monika continued down the street. It didn’t matter what her destination was, she always made it a point to detour by the castle to walk down Linden Allee with it’s enormous trees. Nearing the castle, she saw the flickering lights and remembered there too, lived hundreds of refugees. Monika wished she had ended up in the castle instead of the boring orphanage.

Heading back into town, she passed the big brick church in the square. The clock high on the tower kept time with the rhythm of her boots on the cobblestones.

Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! The clock’s bell rang out, it’s clanging reaching even the furthest corners of town.

“Guten Tag, Clock!” she said in reply. It was four o’clock. One hour till Supper and Bed.

Monika passed the fountain then stopped at the bakery window. Each day there was a fresh, new gingerbread house on display. Her tastebuds came alive and her stomach grumbled as she stopped to admire the most beautiful house she had ever seen. She blew a puff of hot air onto the glass and rubbed out a circle in the frost-covered window. Her nose and mittens pressed on the glass, Monika peered into the imaginary world just out of reach. It was a house just like the ones in town except made out of cookies! Almonds paved the pathway to the front door what was made of licorice. A curved candy-cane crowned the entrance. Miniature frosted windows with candles were on the sides and front of the house. A roof made out of chocolate looked just like the clay tiles she saw on the houses around town. Monika imagined what was on the inside of the house made of cookies. Perhaps a mother sewing by the window and a father reading with spectacles low on his nose. Maybe a child by the fireplace, quietly playing with her doll. Yes, that is how it would be inside the cozy cookie house!

On the front stoop of the gingerbread house, were more cookies shaped like people. A miniature choir. Mouths shaped like O’s, Monika imagined they were singing Christmas songs. She joined the imaginary choir in her head and sang along with them.

“Quack! Quack! Quack!” Overhead, a group of ducks honked loudly interrupting the song. Monika was jolted out of her dreamland of cookies and imaginary choirs and peeled her mittens from the glass. Pulling her collar tight around her neck to ward off the deep cold, she needed to keep moving if she was going have enough time to visit Mutti at the hospital before Supper and Bed.

She hated to rush through her favourite part of the town, the Market Square.  A giant evergreen tree cut from the nearby forest had been placed right next to the fountain. On Sunday last, the men had attached candles onto the branches and lit them with long matchsticks. Monika recalled her delight when the townspeople and the refugees sang together in harmony, “O Tannenbaum”. It was nice to see everyone getting along for a change. It was generally best to stay out of each other’s way since the townspeople seemed to dislike the thousands of refugees who descended on their town after the war. Christmas made people different. It was a time of happiness, celebration and togetherness. At least that was what Monika believed in her heart.

On that night, as the choir of townspeople and refugees circled around the tree together, Monika raised her voice to to the sky, knowing how much her mother would have loved to be there with her and add her alto voice. This thought made Monika sing even louder in an effort to represent both of their voices. A few people turned their heads to see who the loud soprano was. Monika was satisfied that she had done her part. She was finished with being invisible and so she sent a silent prayer up into the clouds. “God, please give Mutti and me a pretty house with a tree in it, too”. She wondered if her prayer would be heard better here, in heavenly Eutin, since there weren’t any bombs, machine guns or screaming planes drowning out her small voice

Monika quickened her pace as she walked through the Market Square … she knew exactly what was coming up next.

The Alleyway. Located in a space between two stone buildings in the Market Square, the alleyway was a narrow tunnel with a long, curved ceiling of brick. No sunshine ever made it into the well-trodden pedestrian throughway. It’s only redeeming feature was that, at night, it offered meagre protection from the winter wind and falling snow.

In the Alleyway, there was a black and grey mangy dog with big teeth who had snarled and barked at her too many times to count. It even chased her down the street once, biting and nipping at her heels. Monika ran down the street, her mouth in the shape of a scream but with no sound. She was a very brave girl and few things scared her, but the thought of that dog quickened her heart to nearly exploding. She walked a brisk pace and a quiet step to avoid trouble.

There were people who appeared to be living there, in the alleyway.  Of late they had started to make fires on the cobblestone to keep warm.  As she passed,  Monika looked in to see the women and men circled around the flames, palms outstretched. It was bitter cold in the late afternoon shadows and Monika felt a chill travel the length of her little body. She was almost past the Alleyway when she first noticed the little girl. The same size as Monika, she was wearing a ratty winter coat that looked just like her own! Made from pieces of an old wool army blanket, it was something that she and the girl had in common. What they didn’t have in common was Supper and Bed. The Alleyway would be the little girl’s bed tonight and she may not have any supper at all.

Monika rushed past the entrance to the Alleyway as snow began to fall. The mangy dog was nowhere to be seen. She really didn’t need another run-in with it. Not tonight. It was too pretty outside for being scared!

It was starting to get even colder now as the sun was sinking low in the sky, partially shrouded by big fluffy grey clouds. The cobblestones echoed Monika’s footsteps as she hurried down Peter Strasse. Turning sharply at the end of the street, she skidded to a halt nearly plowing into a small group of townspeople. Nobody saw or heard her through  the cacophony of their laughing and singing. Monika noticed they were all holding cookies and had crumbs stuck to their lips! “Cookies! Where did they get those cookies?!?” she wondered to herself, quickly tucking into a doorway to spy.

She watched as the cheery group walked up to another one of the big houses on Albert Strasse. All the houses on this street towered above the sidewalk and made Monika feel miniature just like the gingerbread people in the bakery window. She had heard that the people who lived in these mansions used cream in their coffee and baked cookies and pastries in their kitchens!

One of the cookie-eaters rapped loudly on the large front door. Knock! Knock! Knock! It seemed as though a whole minute passed before a woman opened the door and exclaimed, “Oh! Look what we have here! Carolers!”

That was the cue! With faces smiling and cheeks rosy, the group burst into song, their voices ringing out into the cold, crisp air, making such a warm sound. From her sheltered hiding place, Monika sang along with them and smiled. She couldn’t help it. She even felt a little bit warmer, too.

Thinking that the carolers were done, Monika began to sneak away and continue on her route to the hospital where her mother was surely waiting for her. That’s when she saw something curious out of the corner of her eye. They had more cookies! She slipped silently back into the shadow of the doorway to spy once more.

Again, the quartet knocked on another door and sang another christmas song. Not moving a muscle, Monika stayed put to see what happened next. Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped. The people inside the house held out a tray full of cookies, offering them freely to the group of singers!

Was this really possible? Knock on a door. Sing a song. Get cookies.

It seemed to be too good to be true.

Monika was dazzled as though she just witnessed a magic trick. Her mind was bursting with ideas as she made her way down the lane, past the train station and along the hospital pathway where her mother was waiting for her in the front room.

“People sing and get cookies!” Monika burst out as she skipped up to the chair where her mother sat.

Kissing her forehead, she settled on a stool by Mutti’s feet and chattered on about the many adventures she had today. The gingerbread houses, the girl in the Alleyway with the same coat, the singers who got cookies. Monika didn’t mention the mean teacher who pulled her braids or the soup that she was dreading at the orphanage tonight. Not everything needed to be said. She didn’t want to worry Mutti.

Maria listened quietly to her daughter’s stories, but gave her a stern warning at the end. “You are not to beg for your food. It’s fine for the townspeople to knock on each other’s doors and sing, but that’s not for you to do. Remember who you are Monika.”

Monika nodded and said yes, she would obey, kissed Mutti goodbye and headed home. Feeling deflated, head down, she shuffled slowly along.

Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong!

Five o’clock! She was late for supper!  Again.

Past the train tracks and across Plöner strasse, Monika ran the whole way. Panting, she arrived at the iron gate to the orphanage. To her, those gates felt like the passage into a prison cell. She dragged her feet down the path and pushed against the icy cold handle of the doors and leaned her body against the doors to push them open. She was just in time to be last in line for the night’s soup. Monika silently hung her coat by the door, picked a bowl and held it near the stove. Into the pot went the ladle, scraping at the bottom. Out came the same thin grey broth, a few vegetables floating on the surface and that familiar sand. Monika sat quietly, pushing carrot pieces with her spoon. Her stomach grumbled loudly.

All she could think about were those cookies.

———————————————————————————————————————————————–

The next morning, Monika jumped out of bed even before the housemother banged on the door of the sleeping room. Last night, she had set aside the one item that she needed to accomplish her plan. On the floor under the bed, in her wooden box, was the red ribbon for her hair.  The box was for special things only – her shell collection, an extra tiny pinecone, a piece of blue glass worn down on the edges, a giant railway nail, and her little bible. Her ribbon was rolled up next to the shells and was to be used only on special occasions. That was what Mutti had said when she gave it to her last christmas. Today was one of those days. A very special occasion, indeed. She tucked her red ribbon into the pocket of her dress.

The day dragged on endlessly as Monika stared out of the frosty school window. Today everything reminded her of cookies. She wondered what one might feel like in her hand. What would the taste be like when she bit into it? Crunchy or soft? Crumbly? Sweet? She hoped for all of these things. But she hadn’t eaten a cookie before! Maybe it would be sweet like the juice from the grass that grows by the train tracks. Would there be fruit or chocolate? Her mind was bursting with dreams of imaginary cookies. Whatever the feel, whatever the taste or whatever the ingredients she was certain the cookies would be like a taste of heaven. Monika watched every movement of the minute hand on the clock in the schoolroom. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Bong! Bong! Bong!

As soon as the teacher excused them, Monika sprung out of her chair, bounded down the steps of the school and rounded the corner. Stopping briefly, she feverishly tied the red ribbon into her hair. She needed to move fast today.

The first house she chose was made of white stone with two balconies on the front. Monika looked up at the imposing structure that seemed to reach up the clouds. Her plan included houses with at least one balcony. Two would be even better. She calculated, if your house had a balcony, you could afford to give away cookies!

She checked her red ribbon, rapped loudly on the wooden door and took a step back. Waiting was such agony! She reached up to knock a second time and nearly had her hand smashed when it swung wide open. A woman wearing a deep blue dress appeared in the entrance, looking over Monika’s head to the right and left.

“Are you all alone? Was ist los? What do you want?”

“I want to sing you a song!” exclaimed Monika.

Without waiting for a reply, little Monika opened her mouth and let her voice float out, singing “Kling, Glöckchen, Kling-a-ling-a-ling! Kling, Glöckchen, Kling!”

It was her favourite carol about bells at christmas time. Her song rang out just like a bell, bouncing between the tall stone facades of the nearby mansions. Her voice never faltered and she never stopped smiling. Her red cheeks and red ribbon shone brightly in the candle-lit glow emanating from the doorway. Monika glowed from within.

A small crowd gathered at the door from inside the house. Mother, Father, Grandmother and child. A perfect family. Thanking her repeatedly, they clapped for Monika as she completed her song. “Dankeschön, dankeschön, kleine Lied Mädchen!”

Her song complete, Monika became uneasy about how the transaction would actually take place. Not having done this before, she had imagined that the tray of cookies would just simply appear when she was done singing. Should she ask for them? She lingered, speechless, considering her next move. She felt her smile starting to fade as the family continued on with their expressions of thankfulness.

Just as Monika was beginning to feel the overwhelming urge to retreat to the safety of another darkened doorway, the mother gave a nod to the father. He reached over to the sideboard and turned back holding a silver tray. Monika’s eyes grew wide and practically popped open when she saw what was on it. Her hand impulsively reached toward the mountain of goodies as the mother asked politely “Would you like a cookie, Little Song Girl?”. Monika pulled back from the cookie tray and swiftly clasped her hands together. She had forgotten her manners. “Bitte, yes please” she said quietly.

“Take as many as you like” said the mother. Monika fought the urge to take them all and instead took just two. Saying “Dankeschön, thank you” she curtsied and skipped away.

Monika perched atop a rough stone ledge nearby. Her plan had worked! She studied her newly acquired cookies. They were were so delicate and pretty and painted like snowflakes. Something this exquisite certainly deserved to be savoured for more than a few minutes! With the exception of the precious red ribbon tied in her hair, Monika had never owned anything as beautiful as these two cookies. She’d been looking forward to these cookies all day, but she hadn’t imagined that they would be too pretty to eat. What should she do now?

Once again, the church clock reminded her that time was passing and darkness was on it’s way.

She decided it would be okay to eat just one cookie. She would put the other one in her special box under the bed.

Slowly, Monika brought a cookie up to her nose and smelled it. Spicy. Then she touched it to her lips. It tickled!  She reached the tip of her tongue out to touch the edge. A sensation, a sweetness filled her mouth. A nibble. A chew. And another. Until all that remained of the cookie were the crumbs in her hand and on her lips. She didn’t let those go to waste!

Time stood still.

She secretly tucked the remaining cookie deep into the pocket of her coat.

Monika needed to keep moving if she was going to get the job done. A short while later, her voice was starting to feel hoarse and the pockets of her coat were bulging. She had been to 8 more houses! Her cheeks were sore and numb from smiling and her feet were starting to feel tingly.

Snow fell from the sky in large white flakes and stuck to her eyelashes as she made her way past the clock tower and into the market square. It was a magical fairy land. Monika wished she could stop at the edge of the square to take it all in. The tree by the fountain was majestic and there was a new gingerbread house in the bakery window. Rushing by, Monika had no time for window gazing tonight. She had to get back to the orphanage and hide her stash of cookies. Oh! The thought of them tucked away in her special box. She could eat them for supper tonight and breakfast tomorrow morning. Her heart fluttered with the thoughts of such indulgence. No more sandy soup! How she loved Christmas time and, most of all, how she loved cookies!

Monika crossed the street to pass by the Alleyway. Her pockets were heavy and bounced around as she quickened her pace.  A small fire was ablaze on the cobblestones and she noticed the mangy dog was sitting beside the little girl who wore the army blanket coat. The girl’s hands were outstretched to the flames in hopes of thawing out icy fingertips. Accidentally, Monika’s eyes met the eyes of the girl. A surge of guilt rushed in, catching her by surprise. She started to run. She didn’t want to get caught with all those cookies. Holding her pockets down, she ran all the way to the end of the street and rounded the corner where she had seen the carolers the day before. Her heart felt like it was going to explode and her stomach felt sick. Why was she running? 

Monika backed into a doorway and leaned against the frame to catch her breath. She hadn’t noticed the tears streaming out of her eyes. They began to fall out in big drops, making dark circles on the steps. She put her hands into her pockets and felt for the precious cookies. She had earned those cookies fair and square! She came up with the plan! She did the work! Minutes felt like hours as Monika crumpled herself further into the corner of the stairs. This isn’t how she thought it would feel to finally have cookies all her own.

Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong!

Monika slowly lifted herself out of the corner, straightened her coat and wiped away the tears. Her eyelashes were starting to freeze. Taking in a long, deep breath, she exhaled a hot fog back into chilly air. She squared her shoulders and with resolve, turned to walk back toward the Alleyway.

At the entrance to the Alleyway, all eyes turned to watch her including mangy dog. Monika kept her attention fixed on the dog as she reached into her pocket, fished out a cookie and timidly held it out to the little girl. Their eyes met. The girl was silent as she reached for the cookie. Unsure at first, her face burst into a giant smile.

One by one, Monika walked up to each person in the Alleyway, (including the scary ones!) and shared her precious cookies with the strangers there. Even the mangy dog got one.

Her mission accomplished, Monika slipped out of the Alleyway and back onto the main street. Except for one precious snowflake cookie, her pockets were empty, but her heart was full. More full than it had ever been. She hummed softy to herself “Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht” as her feet kept time on the cobblestones. Her voice grew stronger and louder as she walked. Tonight, she imagined that it could reach right up to the stars.

There were three things that Monika knew for sure. One – she was happy. She had her mother and she had Supper and Bed. And even though she didn’t always remember to be, she really was thankful! Two – she was going to have sandy soup again tonight. The third and last thing Monika knew for sure was that Mutti would love the taste of that snowflake cookie!

Monika smiled as she imagined Mutti scolding her and then eating the snowflake cookie anyway. She looked up to the stars and moon and sang to them as though they weren’t so far away. Her voice carried through the street and drifted back down into the Alleyway where the little girl and her family nibbled on cookies around their fire. The mangy dog howled in reply, the snow fell from clouds up above, swirling in the glow of the street lamps and Monika skipped down the street.

The End

———————————————————————————————————————————————

This Christmas Story was inspired by a true story that my mother used to tell of when she used to “Sing for her Supper” as a little girl of 9 years old, in Eutin, Germany. The town and street names are real and the photos are from a trip that I took to the town exactly one year ago. Frohe Weihnachtszeit!

If I close my eyes, I can almost imagine that I am back there in Germany, in Eutin…

———————————————————————————————————————————————

Linden tree branch. Mmmm … those blooms smell good!

I wish that I could capture the scent, package it up and send it to you in the mail. This little town that I am in has a fragrance so sweet, so light and so delicious, it makes breathing a complete pleasure. When I think about the eventuality of being back on Canadian soil and breathing air that is not filled with the aroma of linden, clematis and climbing roses, I fear I’ll have to get accustomed to it as I have so quickly become accustomed to this beautiful little cobblestone and clay tile topped town.

As a little girl, my mother must have also felt like this when she breathed in her first breath, stepping off the train at the station in Eutin. The sweet aroma a beautiful welcome. Then, a few short years later, she was taken away from this perfectly scented little town. A bittersweet departing from the place that she would love for her whole life. The place where her mother, her only family, died and was buried. Her time here, if one looks at the entire length of her life, was not that long. She stepped off the train with a suitcase in one hand and her mother in the other when she was 8 years old and then at age 11 she was taken away, the suitcase now her only possession. Those three years were enough to make an impact that would last for the rest of her life.

Climbing roses along an alleyway, just off MarktPlatz (town centre)

As I walk through cobblestone streets and alleyways in this town, I am overwhelmed by the abundance of roses growing here. Climbing along the sides of centuries old buildings, clinging to trellises and scrambling over stone walls, the roses make their presence known by sheer volume. I also see the wild, white clematis folding over itself in low hedges along the sides of train tracks next to blackberry bushes.

Then there are the linden trees.

Along every street and pathway, the giant linden trees grow and bloom. The canopies that I see now are the very same ones that my mother walked underneath as a child. Strolling through town, it is impossible to miss the fragrance of these trees. Their perfume literally hangs in the air, light and perfect. At this time of year, the linden tree is one whose presence is known first by scent and then by sight.  On any street,  I can look up to see the heavily-scented yellow linden flowers dangling like mini cherries between the leaves.

I have just realized that the garden of my childhood home in Thorold bore a striking resemblance to this place. Roses and clematis were the main features of my mother’s garden. I counted once and was surprised to discover more than 60 rosebushes of various colours and hybrids. Tea roses, miniature bush roses and climbing roses.  And then there was the white clematis planted on the east side of the house. Each spring the clematis would make it’s annual climb up the brick chimney and then, in early September, it would burst into glorious bloom with it’s soft scent wafting gently through the front yard, buzzing and humming from the bees that also found it irresistible.

Since I am a September baby, my mother proclaimed “It blooms for your birthday!” I was always guaranteed a birthday present as long as the white clematis bloomed on schedule.

I have transplanted this very clematis vine twice now. Once from my mother’s garden in Thorold to my home in Port Dalhousie. Once from Port Dalhousie to my current home in Jordan Station. Even now as I write, this same clematis is in full bloom on the trellis in the centre of my own garden. I can hear my mother’s voice when I breath the sweet scent which, ever so often, wafts it’s way up to the deck where I write. She remembers me and sends her love.

Linden Allee, on the Castle grounds. (Schloss Garten)

In the summery dusk, I recall how my mother loved to walk through the neighbourhood arm-in-arm with her two girls. We would watch the sunset from our view at the ridge of the escarpment. One girl on either side, we would sing a little German song as we strolled in rhythm … “Mein hut, er hat drei ecken, drei ecken hat mein hut!”*

We’d be strolling along, singing away and  she would stop suddenly, take a deep breath and say “I can smell the linden tree here”.

In that moment, she was gone.

Off in another world that the linden tree reminded her about. A place in her memory that was always lingering just beneath the surface, waiting for just the smallest prompt to bring it into full view. My mother didn’t mind leaving the present world for a moment to go back to Eutin in her imagination. In fact, I have a suspicion that was the very reason for the walk – to smell the linden trees. Sunset was only a cover story.

Clematis vines climbing over a rock wall beside the sidewalk

On my September birthday, I would wake up for school and go into the dining room for breakfast and there would always be a single rose from the garden, cut and placed in a crystal bud vase that morning. In the evening, upon my request, she would bring out chocolate cake, baked in her German bundt pan and drizzled with sweet glaze.  And always, outside there was the clematis. Reliable as the seasons.

Little did I know then how important these details were to my mother. Her gifts to me – the garden rose in the budvase, the chocolate cake and the blooming clematis – these were her signatures. Gifts of great value because of the memories, both for me and for her. Reminders of a little town in northern Germany. The place where she stored her heart, even all those years later, now living in Canada.

I am here now, in that very town. I have walked the very same pathways that my mother walked when she was just a little girl. I have strolled the very same cobblestone streets and dipped my feet in the warm water of the lakes. I have walked barefoot, just to feel what she felt on the soles of her feet in the summer (and that one winter when she hadn’t any boots!). I have visited the cemetery to say hello to her mother. And also goodbye.

We have both breathed the same sweet linden tree-filled air.

I believe I have found the place where my mother stored her heart.

I too may leave a piece of my heart in Eutin.

Eutin MarktPlatz (Town Centre)

The town of Eutin with der Kleiner Eutiner See in the background.  Taken from the top of the historic water tower.

*For those who speak don’t speak German, the song translates “My hat, it has three corners!”

“Cherries were my favourite fruit, especially the dried ones. Outside, in front of the window, there was a table covered with cherries to bake in the sun. They were not to be touched, but I had a way of sneaking them, one by one, whenever mother was busy sewing and not looking to catch the thief.” Monika Kröker Janzen (from her memoir)

Looking back at my own childhood, if I wanted to picture a scene in my mind which could capture the sum of many memories all at once, it would be that of the two sour cherry trees at the front of our yard.

In the summer, when the trees were practically dripping with ripe red fruit, it was the job of my sister and I to pick the cherries, pack them in quarts and sell them at the roadside for 50 cents a quart. Hardly a get-rich-quick scheme.

There was nothing about this experience that brought me even the remotest sense of joy. The 50 cents in exchange for the job of cherry-picker brought very little satisfaction and I always dreaded picking cherries with my sister in the summer. To me, it was a chore to get done before moving onto bigger and better projects such as a long solitary bike ride to lake Ontario.

Surprisingly to me,  my sister didn’t seem to mind picking cherries. I think she even liked to eat them. My mother absolutely LOVED cherries. As for me, well, I HATED cherries.  Even when we would spend hours on ladders or perched in the branches picking away, snacking on a sour cherry was not an option for me. I would work at a painstakingly slow pace, plucking the berries, stem still attached, placing them mindlessly into my basket whilst dreaming of another place that I wished to be.

Anywhere but there.

My sister and I posing by our sign! Well … I am posing and my sister is doing all of the work. I made the sign, after all.

Sorting and pitting freshly-picked cherries!

My sister, high up on the ladder, happily picking cherries.

There are at least 2 sides to every story. While I hated cherries and cherry picking and cherry trees in general, my mother loved them wholeheartedly. For her, cherries were a distinct reminder of some of the happiest days of her life.

On a typical late summer afternoon in my childhood, my mother could be found in the front garden, hoe in hand, turning the soil around the rosebushes to keep the weeds at bay. She really had a gift with those roses. Most of the rosebushes in our garden in Thorold were cultivated from cuttings she ‘borrowed’ from other plants in neighbouring yards.  She was always weeding, moving plants and watering with the sprinkler. Often I would see her working away, then pause with both hands on her hips and drift off somewhere else, deep in her thoughts. I never knew where she would go in those far-away moments.

It seems to me now as though my mother lived in two worlds at the same time. Germany and Canada. Before the war and after the war. The time with her Mutti and her time as an orphan.

I would snap her back into the present moment with a question. “Mommy, what are you eating?”

She would reply, “Oh, just a cherry pit”.

Gardening with a cherry pit lodged in her cheek. It was the only tangible evidence of a handful of cherries that she had eaten a few hours previous. A physical reminder of something that she just couldn’t let go of.

When my mother was still alive she was continually telling us girls stories of her own childhood. Her narratives ran the gamut of emotion from thrilling adventure to horror to fond reminiscence and heart-breaking tragedy.  There must have been a reason why she was always telling us these stories. Perhaps she felt compelled to tell them, not only for her own benefit, but also for the benefit of her two young girls … so that one day, upon reflection, we would have a way to know who she was and where she came from.

This is the beauty of my own personal stories as well. They help me to never forget my roots. They keep me honest and humble. They give me confidence and provide a sense of connection to people and places that I hold dear to my heart. For me, the stories of my mother and the stories of my own life continue to shape the person that I am today. Like the cherry pit in my mother’s cheek are the narratives running in the back of my mind. These stories that I hold onto remind me of who I am, where I came from and where I am going.

I have come to believe that we remember stories for a reason. That reason which makes you remember the story, is precisely why the story itself needs to be told!

Like my mother before me, I too now have my own collection of stories. Some I choose to tell others and some I tell only to myself because they are too difficult to share. Some of these stories remind me of how strong and powerful I am. Some also remind me of what my principles are or even that I am a good and loving person.

What about the stories that I don’t like to tell? The ones in which I am not the hero? Quite honestly, if I could have a book-burning, those stories would be thrown into the fire without a second thought!

I now recognize that these stories I’ve worked hard to keep hidden, especially the tragic ones, should never be erased or burned. There is a reason why I can’t let some stories be forgotten. And that is precisely why I need to keep telling them, each time exploring the emotion once again, trying to work it out.

If I believe that I am the sum total of my past, my present and my future, then erasing stories from my life or simply not telling them is denying the existence of those parts of myself. A willful self-amputation.

I wonder if my mother felt the same way about her own stories. I can only guess. Perhaps she sensed that if she stopped telling them, she would only exist as a small part of herself and not her whole person.

My mother Monica and her brother Edmund – cherry picking on the family farm in Grimsby. Circa 1960.

And so this is the reason for this project I’ve called Cherries in the Sun. It’s about story-telling … memories and reflections which are being recalled for a reason (whether uplifting or tragic, exciting or horrifying) in the hopes that in the telling, they will provide increased clarity and connection to my whole person. Some are my own stories and some are my mother’s.

I’m confident that my mother would’ve wanted her story to be told. I also believe that she felt that telling her story from the very beginning was the only way to help others begin to understand who she was. I see now that she hoped if one could just hear her whole story, from beginning to end, that judgement and misunderstanding could be suspended and that forgiveness and empathy would take it’s place.

Twenty years ago, when I was 18 and she was in her last days, my mother scribbled a hasty memoir. As I read her writing today, I am struck with the thought that the stories she chose to jot down are ones that have a soothing quality to them. Stories of cherries drying in the sun on a summer afternoon.  Perhaps, as her stories are for me, they were a way for her to connect with her own mother, the only family that she ever knew. Her mother (my biological grandmother) had also died of breast cancer, orphaning her only child (my mother) at the age of 11.

Sadly my mother never had a chance to quite fully tell her story the way that the school teacher in her would’ve wanted it to be told.  She left behind little clues though, and, like crumbs along a pathway, I have begun picking up the pieces. I hope to stand in her place as intercessor, telling her story on her behalf.

I want to carry the past forward with me and get lost in it. I want to savour the flavours, relive the hardships and have my heart break for her, perhaps even for the first time. I want to feel the emotion, as deep and raw as it should be and, where joy is found, to have my heart warmed.

Like my mother in her prized rose garden, I’m carrying the cherry pit in my own cheek for a little while.

“My mother would take out her scissors and cut out a row of paper dolls, or she’d take her pencil crayons and draw some pictures that would tell a story to remind me of the good old days, such as cherries in the sun.” Monika Kröker Janzen (from her memoir)

If you’re still with me, thanks for sticking around to the end of this lengthy post! This happens to be my very first blog entry for Cherries in the Sun. Goals are good to have, and my goal for this project is to add a new entry every week. Stay tuned for a new one pretty soon. I invite you to join me in this journey … and also, I welcome your comments or stories at any time.

Thanks for listening so far… and I hope we can meet here again soon.