“Hey, dad, can you tell me how you and mom met again? What made you fall in love with her? If I were to make you dinner, what would you want? Who was your favourite actor? Is there somewhere in the world you would travel to if you could? What did you think the first time you laid eyes on me? Are you proud of me, even though I’ve made mistakes? What’s the meaning of life? Where did you go when you died? Can you please send me a sign you are okay?”

The other day I said to my son, “Sometimes I think of all the questions I would ask my dad if he were still alive.” My son said, “Sounds like a great idea for a blog post, mom.”

He is the same son who suggested I write a book. So I did. Four times.

Meanwhile, as the seasons change, I get pulled into the melancholy that goes with winter’s onset—rain-drenched nights, crisp star-studded blackness, and a silver-clawed moon casting shadows on leafless trees. The obvious reminders indicate summer is over. Yet, I wonder if I am ready.

“Starry, starry night

Paint your palette blue and gray

Look out on a summers day

With eyes that know the darkness in my soul.”

The song “Vincent” by singer-songwriter Don Mclean reminds me of my dad. He was also named Vincent. 

“Starry, starry night

Flaming flowers that brightly blaze

Swirling clouds in violet haze

Reflect in Vincent’s eyes of china-blue

Colors changing hue

Morning fields of amber grain

Weathered faces lined in pain

Are soothed beneath the artist’s loving hand”

His lyrics simultaneously warm and haunt me and cause my tears to catch and hover, not falling, but tucked away inside like the many unanswered, plaguing questions I have for my father.  

Am I mourning the changing seasons, or the loss of my father? Both seem to intermingle with the other.

With continued thoughts of my dad, my mouth’s downward pout moves ever so slightly into a smile. The ache in my heart is replaced with relief in my soul because I remember my father was my salvation.

That’s what my memories sometimes do, they trigger the sad times from my past or happy thoughts of days gone by. Two emotions in sync with the other, harmonious and side by side. 

I can trust my brain, but my feelings not so much. I have to remind myself that feelings are not always factual. This has helped me to figure out that sometimes my emotions are not telling me the truth; they are lies, I tell myself. For example, I concluded long ago that just because someone looks at me a certain way does not mean they are mad or judging me. A solution for me is to get an outside perspective from someone I trust. This little trick is far less painful than feeling like my world is crashing in on me.

The mind is like a capable, fine-tuned machine. I keep mine in good working order. However, sometimes it needs a tune-up, especially when visuals, smells, songs and memories encourage recollections and bring up intense feelings and emotions.  

Therapists and counsellors have taught me that even though the brain automatically stores experiences into a form of memory, there are times when the brain “walls off” memory as a coping mechanism. For example, amid trauma, the brain may wander off and work to avoid the memory. Sometimes I have a mild dissociation that causes me to daydream or get lost in my thoughts. However, there have been times in my life when I have experienced a severe and more chronic case of trauma that I cannot easily overcome, and therefore dissociation helps me. But only for a time, because if not unravelled and sorted through, it grumbles if poked. It’s hard to move forward when the past is griping, fussing, and tormenting. 

Instead of pushing everything down, my writing has helped bring everything to the surface. 

I always thought the term “getting over it” was a harsh thing to say, as in, stop feeling unhappy about something or stop being controlled or bothered by something. But then I learned the origin of the phrase “get over it” was used as a late 14th century meaning for “recover.” I was fascinated when I researched synonyms for “getting over it,” and words such as conquer, defeat, overthrow, and reduce came up.

So, my investigation made me think again.

Then I looked up the dreaded word “trauma,” which included words such as agony, damage, and ordeal. The worst part is that trauma often threatens what we value most. Still, if we can overcome it, we experience a positive outcome of personal growth, more robust relationships, and a deeper appreciation for life. Trauma can permanently change us. We become different because of it. If we dig deep, face our fears, and overcome them, we find new strength. 

So maybe the phrase “getting over it” is a good thing. Likewise, changing and becoming different is not a bad thing.

As Emily Dickinson once said, “the mind is more open than the sky,” which I have learned to be true regarding the complexity of storing memories. 

And what about this…

Over time, do we forget something deliberately, or does it become more challenging to remember? 

I was twenty-six years old when my dad was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumour. My sister-in-law and I noticed his dizzy spells and memory lapses. His usual flow in storytelling became interrupted by patches of silence, causing his furrowed brow and the confused look in his eyes to concern us.

The day I was given the announcement for the beginning of his end, was one of those crisp October days with crackling leaves underfoot, brisk air all around, and a warm sun coaxing its vitamin D into my bones. The kind of day with the healing splendour of daylight.

Of course in my mind, my usual, and sometimes annoying positive outlook encouraged me to believe the tarantula-like mass in my father’s brain would and could be removed. But the professionals said no, because the tumour had octopus-like arms reaching their tentacles in and around his brain’s essential parts. Evil. Encircling. Choking.

It was a horrible thought and an even worse reality.

Like a rude, obnoxious, know-it-all, I snubbed it. I looked down my nose at it and refused to accept such a ridiculous prediction. I would not welcome my father’s death sentence in any way, shape, or form. 

“Oh really, hmmm, that’s nothing! My dad has survived extreme poverty, abandonment as a child, and so much heartache, while keeping up a happy disposition and gregarious laugh. He will surely beat this.” I said this out loud to whomever would listen.

Denial can be a wonderful thing, and yet debilitating, all in one fell swoop.

The treatments stole his hair, as the disease took away his voice, and his usually handsome, chiselled good looks became puffy and foreign. Simultaneously, I refused to believe he would soon leave me.

I can still hear myself saying, “My dad has survived far worse…a two-hundred-foot fall down the side of the Capilano Suspension bridge; a near-fatal heart attack while driving on the Upper Levels Highway; being burned in a fire in Mission with skin grafting that would make others cry out in horrific agony. He will beat a measly ole brain tumour, I’m sure of it!” 

After I lamented, my father confidently and knowingly smiled at me as if he knew he would beat it too. Although, in retrospect, maybe he was smiling at my blind love for him.

As the youngest in my family, I did not think or have any clue that I should go to an appointment with my father, or do any research, or even ask any questions. Everyone else had always taken care of me. He was 70, my mom was 65. It was as if, even at 26 years old, I still thought of myself as being under the care of my parents.

During this time of trauma and terror in my personal life, I worked for a company called TLC—Tender Loving Care. They provided services for older adults in need of a friend or a helping hand. My favourite client was a 92-year-old retired teacher living in a mansion by herself in Shaughnessy. Her sister had passed away in one of the upstairs bedrooms. The whole setup had an eerie sensation and mysterious essence of the 1980s show Murder She Wrote with Angela Lansbury. There was a lightness to the woman, but something dark lurking in the atmosphere. I was always a little bit frightened to be there, but my client’s sweetness candy-coated the experience. 

My duties included making her breakfast, doing her laundry, making her dinner for later, and visiting. 

She was in the habit of barricading her door when she was alone, so each time I went, we had to go through the process of her identifying that I was a friend and not a foe, before she would let me in. There she was, no taller than five feet, a sweet waif of a woman, withered and worn and smiling ear to ear, so happy to be having a caller.

Once inside, she began telling me stories of her past. She spoke of her father building their home in the 1920s, and how she had met Ronald Regan when he visited Vancouver. Her recollections described the southwest area of Vancouver as expansive farmland, horses grazing, wheelbarrow rides, and the clanging of the street car on South Granville street. Dances and dance cards, and the man she loved marrying someone else. Broken hearts and a sister she adored. After she told me they were both spinsters, a faraway look glazed her eyes, and she paused. I did not know if she stopped talking because she forgot what she was about to say, or if the memories were too painful to recall.  

I hung on to her words and visualized her fascinating life.

When they placed my dad in the palliative care ward of Lions Gate Hospital, I worried and became thrilled when a nurse told me he had eaten a small portion of jello. I remember being pleased and hopeful that he would still make it—denial, contradiction, and avoidance.

“Starry, starry night

Paint your palette blue and gray

Look out on a summer’s day

With eyes that know the darkness in my soul.

Shadow on the hills

Sketch the trees and daffodils

Catch the breeze and the winter chills

In colours on the snowy linen land.”

While at his bedside on September 25, 1987, when he could no longer see, and was just a shell of the man he once was, I told him it was okay for him to go. I reassured him I would be okay. 

With such strength, he gripped my hand, which felt like a feather soft in his, and he held on tightly. I could have stayed like that for a long time. I did not want to let go or tell him he could let go, but I did. I needed to free him from his pain.

“Now I understand

What you tried to say to me

How you suffered for your sanity

How you tried to set them free

They would not listen, they did not know how

Perhaps they’ll listen now.” 

In retrospect, I now know his vice-like grip when his life was almost finished was his way of saying “I love you, thank you, I am sorry, but I have to go now…” He was comforting me and reassuring me he was going to be okay.

The question was and still is, but will I be okay?

As sad as this may sound, I still think of him thirty-four years later. But my thoughts have shifted, and leaned more towards happy memories. My dad was playful, fun, and funny. We had a game that was symbolic and so telling—wrapping his hands around my little toddler waistline, he would throw me up in the air, at least ten feet, and catch me without fear that I would be dropped. Bystanders watched my dad’s strength in hoisting me up and out of his arms. I loved the gasps and how people covered their mouths in alarm towards my father’s antics. To this day, I can still feel the freeness of looking down at him in the air, my bird’s eye view seeing his arms outstretched, waiting to catch me, and landing in his strong arms, safe and sound on impact, and into his tight embrace.

And then one day, when I asked him, “Please, Daddy, throw me up in the air!” He responded, “Oh, you are a big girl now, and I’m afraid I can no longer manage to get you up that high, let alone catch you safely when you land.”

Instead of feeling sad that our game had ended, I felt terrible, knowing that HE felt bad that he had to say no. Therefore, no whining or pleading came from my big girl self, even though I knew I would always be his little girl. I wanted to yell, “Yes, you can, Daddy, you can do it!” I was sure he could still manage our game of heaving me up and waiting for my return. I had faith in him.

However…

We know everything about our past is not all sunshine and roses—purring kittens, rainbows, and pots of gold.

For example, a short excerpt from my second book, Where is my Happy Ending – A Journey of No Regrets pages 277-278. 

“I did not know what to call it, a funeral, a memorial service, or a celebration of life. We picked a date and a location to wish my dad a fond farewell, to say bon voyage, cheerio, sayonara, and bye-bye. We were sending him to a better place, but it was unclear to me where that better place was. I so wanted it to be heaven.

For a reason unknown to me, someone had ordered a white stretch limousine to pick up my grieving family. Clamouring out the door from our house on Jones Avenue were my two brothers, their partners, my sister, mother, myself, and my husband. Silently, the chauffeur nodded as he opened the gleaming white door, and one by one, like dutiful robots, we climbed in. I could not remember the last time we had all been together like this. Perhaps it had been my wedding, but never in a confined space such as a vehicle, where we all sat silently facing one another.

It felt glamorous, but wrong, to be enjoying the luxury of black leather seats set in a U-shape formation, with a minibar lined up behind the driver. The sunroof was open, allowing a warm September breeze to ruffle my hair. At one point, my brother’s girlfriend suggested we stand up through the sunroof above us. The driver said that was completely out of the question for safety reasons. None of us wanted to do it, anyway, except her.

As we exited Lonsdale Street and turned onto the Upper Levels Highway, the route reminded me of all the times I had ridden with my father as a little girl in his work truck. My treasured childhood memory, combined with the new experience of being in a limo, brought a lightness to the event, and for a brief moment, I was absurdly happy. Catching myself, I struggled to find balance and teetered between pain and euphoria. For once, my mother’s mental health issues seemed to be making sense. 

The Capilano Crematorium had standing room only. Aside from myself, a great number of people loved my dad, and it seemed like all of North Vancouver had come out to pay their respects. Not everyone could fit inside the room, and many had to wait outside until it was over. It was the end of a long warm summer, so thankfully, the doors were kept open.

I sat next to my mother, and she held my hand. I first thought she laced her fingers in mine because she was reaching out to calm me, but when I felt the wadded-up Kleenex balled up in her palm, I realized she was holding my hand for her own sake. I did not mind and welcomed her show of affection, as the last time she held my hand was when I was a little girl at the grocery store.

My oldest brother had prepared music, a mixed tape of my father’s most loved songs – “The Tennessee Waltz,” sung by Patti Page and “Put Your Sweet Lips a Little Closer to the Phone,” by Jim Reeves. We had an open microphone, so people could come up and share their memories, thoughts, or heartfelt feelings. 

I later regretted not getting up to speak. Fear gripped me. But after, I thought what a wonderful speech and tribute I could have given.

Stepping outside into the glaring sunshine, several people stood around laughing at the telling of old stories or perhaps funny memories they had shared with my dad, while others timidly glanced over at me, downcast, not knowing how to act or what to do.

I wanted everyone to be weeping, to holler out how unfair it was, shake their fist at the sky, and demand answers. Instead, their laughter felt wrong and unnerving. I yearned for someone to gallantly take my father’s place, climb into the oven, and become reduced to ashes, professing that they should be taken from this world instead.”

Where is my Happy Ending – A journey of No regrets By Karen Harmon

“And then one day

A magic day he passed my way

Though we talked of many things, fools and kings

This he said to me

“The greatest thing you’ll ever learn

Is just to love and be loved in return.”

But I could have told you, Vincent

This world was never meant for

One as beautiful as you”

I have come to terms with the unfairness that death and dying can bring. The bottom line is that life has always been unfair, uneven, and imbalanced. After our loved ones die, we might feel ripped off, like, “Hey, wait a minute, that wasn’t supposed to happen!” And then people will say to us, “They are in a better place; he’s not suffering anymore, his pain is gone, and he will be with you always.”  

Without sounding ungrateful, most people’s intentions are kind and well-meaning. But what if they said, “Oh, don’t be silly, they didn’t die,” “I just saw them in the next room,” or “Get over it!”  “Have you lost your mind?”

As I get older, I am getting used to people dying. Their demise is sad, and the loss of life is still excruciating. But then the importance of living smacks me in the heart, and I want to live more than ever.

Out of confusion and in a searching mode, after my father passed, I went to a fortune teller. I still hold onto her soothsaying wisdom to this day, just in case it’s true.

A week after my dad left me, I spent many evenings looking up to the starry-starry night and wondering where his soul had gone. Based on a friend’s referral, I made an appointment, drove to Kitsilano and quickly found the address.

Upon entering, the room was still, and I noticed my surroundings: a ticking clock, the slight aroma of musk incense, combined with the telltale signs of a cat. That distraction reminded me how much I love cats. And I may be better off getting advice from a feline friend grooming itself and purring out a morse code mantra than a stranger in a trance perseverating over my existence.

While waiting for my anticipated forecast, upon her instructions, I breathed in the positive and breathed out the negative. 

Eventually, snapping out of her trans-like state, the clairvoyant said, “You will live a very long life and become wise beyond your years. People of all ages will come to you seeking wisdom.” After hearing this, a sense of relief washed over me, and I was flattered, paid my fifty dollars, and went on my way. But, hanging onto an airy-fairy prediction that I have never forgotten makes me wonder, am I willing the prophecy to be true? Do I dare question its origin?

If my dad were still alive, I know he would hate the modern-day fashion of ripped jeans. To him, it would be a sign of poverty. He might say, “Why on earth do those people not mend their pants?” Or “Will you look at that poor bugger, too poor to buy new clothing. Maybe we have something laying around the house we can give them?”

He would shake his head at present-day technology and say, “For darned sakes, will you look at that!” When I showed him my cell phone, he’d comment, “Well, I’ll be damned!” A computer would be almost unfathomable. However, I presume he would love looking things up on Google.

Or maybe he would throw his hands up and growl, “Whatever happened to socializing, telling jokes, and a good old-fashioned game of charades.”

I’m glad I had a good dad, even though he had a tough upbringing and was not given any tools for being a husband or a father. He somehow had a love-thy-neighbour attitude and decided at a young age to always be kind, especially to children. Yes, I suppose he made mistakes. I know I certainly have. Regardless, I still miss him. 

What about you?

Do you have questions you would ask your parents or another loved one, if they were still here? As I ask you this, I wonder if it stirs up feelings of joy, annoyance, anger, or pain. Do you laugh out loud or quickly bury the thoughts and feelings in the back corners of your mind?

I would love to hear from you in the comments. It can be cathartic to share, and I am interested.

When my son, Mackenzie Vincent Harmon, suggested I write a blog, he also said this…

“And then your blog can have a positive tie-in at the end, like how you can still have these conversations in your head, and see your dad so vividly, that he clearly did enough to impact your life with the bit of time he had.”

-Mac

Thank you

Don Mclean

Born October 2, 1945, is an American singer-songwriter and guitarist. His most acclaimed songs are American Pie, Vincent, Castles in the Air, and I love You So.

High School Daze

By Karen Harmon

“What I remember most about high school are the memories I created with my friends.”

When I think back to my high school days, instead of remembering that academic aspect of getting an education, my thoughts unravel to such things as…crushes I had on boys, my loathing of P.E. class, and the math homework I never did; the dreaded and worrisome pimples that came out of nowhere, and the removal of my wisdom teeth; the times I forgot my locker combination and my gym strip. Not to mention all the latest fashion trends I did not own, and the whole while, longing to be cooler. 

On the outside, I was carefree and fun. I proudly held the nicknames smiley and motor mouth. However, sometimes I was curled up inside myself, living in my own personal turmoil. I thought everyone was prettier, smarter, thinner, and funnier, and the students who smoked on the street corner outside my school were the coolest. Those who partied and slept around were out of my league. I was far too shy and insecure to join the ranks of those cool people.

If it could be any worse, some of these memories are wrapped up and tightly coiled with feelings of mortification and embarrassment. However, much acceptance and unraveling has taken place. Most of the hard bits have been smoothed out.

Besides, what IS cool anyway?

The proper definition of cool is moderately cold; neither warm nor cold; a relatively cool evening. Of course, the slang meaning is what I am talking about here—Cool: Okay, cool! I’ll be there at 10:00, OR He got the job? So cool! And my favourite, Fonzie from Happy Days, was so cool! 

Meanwhile, we know our perception of what WAS or IS cool changes with age. Especially when we become parents or health nuts and more conscious about our minds, bodies, and the world around us. In other words, our older and wiser self has common sense and acquired life lessons.

Sometimes…

 Living with past regrets mixed in with that nostalgia might cause us to wish for a do-over. Or maybe we have closed that door and have no desire to turn back the hands of time whatsoever.

So…

What would you do differently if you could go back to school as the person you are now?

As for me, if I could go back in time to high school as the person I am now, I would join the drama class, debate team, and student council. I’d raise my hand to answer questions instead of averting my eyes from the teacher’s gaze. I would take more interest in learning. And I would speak to the boys I used to be intimidated by. In addition, instead of staying home to watch episodes of The Waltons, I would go to all the dances and parties and be the belle of the ball!

I love those movies where the character travels back in time or has an assignment where they go back to high school…kind of like a do-over. 

Hopefully, we have learned from our mistakes and forgiven those who have wronged us. But, just as importantly, we treasure the good memories, walking the halls with our friends and the shared laughter, hopes, and dreams of the day we would be released from the institution that kept us hostage. 

And yet, something about our teenage years, high school and everything that went with it, had a significant impact on our lives. We still talk about those five years of secondary school, even thirty and forty years later. Like they were the good ole days.

But were they really?

And then, like the flick of a switch, we became who we are now. 

Currently, during the day and early evening, I wear many hats. Aside from being a writer, course facilitator, and fitness instructor, I also work in a high school as an Education Assistant.

I thoroughly enjoy the jobs and skills I have acquired. I like what I do and do what I like.

However, retiring sounds incredibly appealing, and when the time comes, I look forward to a less structured routine day in and day out. 

With that being said, I know I will continue to do things. I would like, God willing, to continue teaching fitness until my last breath. It may look different but still completely doable. In addition, I will want to write more, and I am looking forward to having more time for cooking.

But before my future happens, there is still the present. 

Monday to Friday, 8:30 a.m. until 3:00 p.m., I work with a Grade 9 student at a high school. I can honestly say the best part of my job is helping others and reliving my high school days.

You know that old saying, “Beauty is wasted on the youth.” I would like to add that sometimes high school is wasted on the youth too. 

Let me explain…

When I walk down the hallways at my school, I see so many students that might have been my friends many years ago. Except they are different—they seem more inclusive, friendlier and wiser. I do love my job. I participate in chemistry experiments, English writing assignments, and history lessons I have long since forgotten. Yet, I feel privileged to experience a new curriculum. Now the students study the environment, are taught critical thinking, and there is a big emphasis on human rights, work experience, life skills, and managing a cheque book. In addition to sports in P.E., there are other options, including dance, yoga, aerobics, hiking, and weightlifting. 

Please keep in mind that no matter how insightful or intuitive I think I am, I cannot read people’s minds or know what is going on in their hearts. When working with youth, my goal is to be a beacon of hope, making myself as approachable as possible, regardless of what I hear in the news or see on social media. Or maybe it’s because of?

I promise you there is a lot of positivity too!

Being a part of a high school environment, I have learned much about myself. As an adult, I now know I WAS cool but in a completely different way from the peers I wanted to emulate. I also know I was loved and raised to do the same. Unfortunately, many did not have this element growing up. It’s a known fact that parents struggle too.

My teenage years were spent living on a hobby farm in Stave Falls. I had a horse named Cricket and sold farm fresh eggs to the neighbours. We went to horse auctions on the weekends, participated in mini rodeos, and attended many movies. My friends and I cruised the strip in Maple Ridge, Mission, and Abbotsford. Gas was cheaper back then! I had a best friend whose family owned a trailer at Birch Bay, so she and I cruised the strip there too.

The fifty acres my parents owned were complete with three man-made ponds stocked with rainbow trout, rope swings, a diving board, and rafts. The natural springs filled the watering holes in the fall and winter and warmed them in the spring and summer. Therefore, we swam for a significant portion of the year and ice skated for a smaller portion.

Don’t get me wrong, I was not always a goody two shoes! I was a late bloomer and participated in the drinking scene when I was older. I will save that for another blog! Or please read my book Where is My Happy Ending? – A Journey of No Regrets for heartwarming stories, heart-wrenching moments, and relatable memories of the 1970s and 1980s.

Forgive me. I digress!

Today at the high school where I work, my student and I were in her Grade 9 cooking class. The lab was pizza dough and Naan bread. As you know, both products are made with yeast.

As I scurried about helping the teacher, my student, and various others; with measuring, mixing, kneading, and cleaning up afterwards, I was reminded of this…

In the 1960s, my mother went through a bread-making phase. I call it a phase because she was bipolar, so her plans, schemes, and ideas were sometimes seasonal, if not a little up and down.

Side note: aside from her mental health issues, she was a wonderful mother, and I loved her dearly and still do. Healing from past hurts helped me to figure this out. I have also learned that her mood swings have made me an empathetic, open-minded person who tries to see past people’s struggles and sometimes unhealthy behaviour.

ANYWAY…

Be that as it may, from when I was in Grade 2 until about Grade 6, my mother went through a bread-making phase.

Today while watching the teacher demonstrate the process of making bread to the Grade 9 students,  I realized I had never made bread before.

I allowed myself a brief time away mentally from the task at hand to remember my mother and her bread-making. I was filled with wonderful memories of coming home after school to the smell of freshly baked bread being pulled from the oven. I swear I could smell it a block away. She was pretty adamant about giving it time to cool or rest or whatever needed to happen…and then, when the time was right, we were allowed to have a warm thick slice with butter and homemade strawberry freezer jam. With it was a cold glass of milk. Its thick creamy goodness went well with the fluffy white dough. 

Sometimes I would sit at the kitchen table, savouring the chewy delicacy. Other times, I would go outside and sit on our rope swing that hung down between two enormous cedar trees. My fingers would be sticky from the jam or dripping butter—usually both.

It was the sixties, and that’s how we rolled!

Remembering this moment lost in time, I am so happy I recalled it today. And then I allowed myself to think further…

Did my mother plan to have the bread come out of the oven precisely when I walked in the door from school? Or was it a haphazard accident? Did she think that morning, Oh, I better make a fresh batch of freezer jam to go with the bread I am making for Karen. Perhaps she made homemade bread to save money. Or maybe she was thinking of HER mother and how things were done in the 1930s. And what did she think when she decided not to make bread anymore?

Summing up

I go to my school job daily as an adult, and I often compare the year 2022 to my teen years in the 1970s. I can honestly say that even though there are still many struggles for teenagers, ALL the young people I meet during my day are so COOL! So many of them have a better awareness of health and fitness, the environment and the world around us. The teachers are inclusive and kind, encouraging and open to how all minds work. There is safety and respect from teachers, counsellors, and education assistants like me.

All in all, my experiences are good. My memories are fun and humorous and sometimes a little sad. I relish them all.

Now, what about you? I would love to hear your thoughts and some of your memories. Maybe they are very different from mine? Perhaps my blog calmed your fears, made you smile, or gave you a moment to go back in time. Please share if you feel inclined to do so.

P.S. As of this date, I am currently working on my fourth book and halfway through a fiction manuscript called CLASS of ’78. I am sure you can imagine what it will be about. I will keep you posted!

NOTE: before we get to my blog, I feel the need to comment on the disastrous results of the flooding in the Lower Mainland.

I wrote this blog in early November while thinking about my upcoming birthday on November 17^th. I have extraordinarily fond and fuzzy warm feelings for this time of year, and I wanted to share those memories with you. Unfortunately, since first writing my blog, there have been recent catastrophic events in regard to the unprecedented heavy rains we have experienced locally. Therefore, I ask that while reading this blog, you keep in mind that my thoughts expressed here are unrelated to the disastrous flooding. My heart goes out to the many people, farms, businesses, and animals that have been affected.

November is my favourite month of the year. It indicates the end of Autumn and the prelude to winter. The 11^th month of every year brings late sunrises to the morning and early gloominess to the evening.

Some people get the blues and find November to be dismal and gloomy. Yet, I feel cocoon-like, hopeful, safe, and content. If a social gathering is cancelled due to inclement weather, I am relieved, as in, ‘Good, I get to stay home!’

Wherever we live, we choose to either struggle or breeze through whatever the seasons have to offer. Sometimes we are reluctant and find ourselves persevering. But eventually, we get a handle on it and hold our own when it comes to external conditions, especially in November. We often reason it out,  thinking ‘Time passes so quickly, and a new calendar year is just around the corner.’ Thus, we can sum up how life will again bring forth environmental awakenings— budding trees, blooming flowers, clearer skies—and if we can just get through the cold, dark months of November, December, January, and February, we will be okay.

My theory is to accept my surroundings, forge through the atmospheric conditions, dress for the weather, and nestle into the inevitable, sometimes clobbering of winter.

However…

In life, many people depend on rain for their livelihood, and much more. Although rain can cause happiness for some, there are also times when this phenomenon can cause distress to others. I want to acknowledge that some people suffer from seasonal depression, also known as (SAD) Seasonal Affective Disorder, which is a type of depression related to changes in the seasons. For most people with SAD, their symptoms start in the fall and continue into the winter months, sapping their energy and making them feel moody, or unfortunately, even worse, as each situation is unique and different for everyone. More personally, my mother displayed shifts in her moods, and some thought it was due to the weather.

Alternatively…

When winter is looming, you may consider yourself a snowbird, jetting off to another country where the harsh snow or rain are not a concern. Or perhaps where you live, the climate is somewhat seasonless, and you perpetually wake up to bright, warm sunshine coming through your window, or an eye-popping sunset that offers not warmth, but glorious eye feasting colours in the night sky.

The weather is different where I live…

Vancouver, British Columbia, especially in November, has the most rainfall of any other province in Canada. Residents here in this coastal city experience rain and dampness that comes in all forms, from a light mist and mild drizzle to gentle sprinkles, or some days a burst of heavy showers that evolve into a downpour of cold, sideways-blowing rain. I recently heard someone describe the highways and byways as atmospheric rivers that pop up throughout the lower mainland and all over British Columbia.

More recently here in the Lower Mainland, we have experienced first-hand how disastrous a menacing tirade of unceasing water can be. My condolences and prayers to those who are struggling with extreme loss and hardship. My praise also for the heroes who are stepping up to the plate, offering their time and effort to ease the severe circumstances of many.

On a lighter note…

On many occasions, the wind turns umbrellas inside out, and blows hoods and hats from our heads. Puddles splash up on our pantlegs when cars drive by, and soggy wet leaves disintegrate into nothing from the smashing down of our footsteps as we rush about looking for coverage.

In Vancouver, Gore-Tex can be worn as business casual. Umbrellas are found propped in hallways, on coat racks, scattered in the backseat of our cars, and jammed into various bags, ready to use at a moment’s notice.

Gumboots sit by the door, and reflective wear, headlamps, and safety vests are nearby and highly recommended.

A popular local joke is that instead of getting sun-tanned, Vancouverites rust!

Here on the coast, we love to say things like…

It is raining cats and dogs out there.

Nobody knows how to drive in the rain.

The roads are the slickest in the first half-hour.

The plants are going to love this.

I sleep better when it’s raining.

This weather makes me want to stay at home and curl up with a good book.

More notably, our four-legged friends often loathe the rain—specifically my Chihuahua, Steven. He digs his heels in and refuses to go outside when the weather is anything but dry. He would much rather stay in bed!

I have always rooted for the underdog. So, could that be why I like the most disliked month of the year? Or perhaps the reason is this…

Hockey Night in Canada

Hockey Night in Canada is primarily associated with its Saturday-night NHL broadcasts that began in 1931, first on the radio, and then on television in 1952. In 1970-71, the Vancouver Canucks joined the NHL, therefore, growing up in North Vancouver, you can only imagine the excitement in our home on Saturday nights, especially when our home team, the Canucks, were playing.

Rainy days and nights always remind me of hockey games on television.

I can still hear the announcer’s voice, although, ironically, I was not wrapped up in the game like my family was. But the sound of the commentator’s voice brings back fond memories of my family oohing and awing, cheering and yelling at the television during every game.

My older sister was missing from the family dynamics around Hockey Night in Canada because she chose to be out riding horses. If the TV was not available for her western shows, then undeniably, hockey was not my sister’s cup of tea.

I was the little sister, so I had no choice.

Announcer comments 101

He shoots. He scores!

Coast to coast, like butter on toast.

He’s threading the needle, or nice thread.

If that post hadn’t been there, that would have been a goal.

We’re going to take them one game at a time.

If you can’t beat them in the alley, you can’t beat them on the ice.

Win the fight and lose the game.

The goalposts are a part of the goalie’s equipment.

When you put the puck on the net, good things happen.

That was a goal-scorer’s goal.

We’ve got to score those dirty goals.

We need to get more traffic in front of the net.

We need to give 110 percent.

They are a lunch pail crew.

We really didn’t give the goaltender any support.

Will you look at that Spinarama!

The fourth win is the hardest to get.

Our goalie bailed us out.

And of course, the excitement mounted when the popular term “the gloves are off!” was stated in the most emphatic way.

The Bottle Rocket was rare, but it was the most fun for me. This is a term that refers to when a goal breaks the goalie’s water bottle. There were many instant replays when this occurred, and my father always called me over to sit on his lap and watch it all in slow motion.

Hockey lingo is a language of its own, with phrases and terminology that only a hockey player or a faithful fan would understand.

Many of us grew up with favoured commentators such as Jim Hughson, Chris Cuthbert, Rick Jeanerette, Ron Maclean, and Mike “Doc” Emrick. Of course, all of them are popular and cherished in their own right, but to some people like me, just the sound of their voices was (and still is) comforting.

For me, the rain, comfort food, and staying indoors were the gateway to Hockey Night in Canada.

Visualize this…

Hard-hitting rain pelting the windowpanes and darkness terminating outside play by 4:30 p.m. Steamed up windows from my mother’s savoury meals.

One can still taste the hearty, delectable meals such as roast beef, root vegetables, and creamy mashed potatoes with gravy; rich, brothy stews, accompanied with fluffy biscuits that were golden brown on the outside, pull-apart goodness on the inside; apple crisp with sweet, crunchy brown sugar crumble on top and pumpkin pie with whipped cream.

And don’t forget our beloved Jello.

While she was cooking, my older brothers, father, and grandfather cheered from the living room. Their animated faces, camaraderie, and scoffs could be heard a mile away. My mother often left the kitchen to rush in and join in the festivities because she, too, was a fan.

I was there, but not front and center. Instead, I felt the presence of family and fun from the sidelines (no pun intended).

There I would sit with puzzles permanently set up at the family’s card table. Disney colouring books and Crayola crayons were strewn about. Board games such as Trouble, Sorry, Monopoly, and Snakes and Ladders were stacked nearby, ready to play. Sometimes I would help my mother with the meal by making dessert in my Easy Bake oven. I delighted in churning out sweet sugary masses of chocolate discs for my family. The turning of those small knobby dials on my etch-a-sketch would keep me busy designing modern art. Light Bright, “making things with light,” Battleship, “hey, you sunk my battleship!” and Rock em Sock em Robots, “I can beat any kid on the block, oh no, my block was knocked off!”

Whatever happened to the Etch A Sketch?

And this…

My parents purchased season tickets to attend the Vancouver Canuck hockey games at the Vancouver Coliseum. I will never forget being taken to my first live game at the age of ten. It was a huge deal, just my dad and me, driving over the Iron Workers Memorial Bridge (at the time, it was called the 2^nd Narrows Bridge), and pulling into the parking lot as my father steered our car towards a uniformed parking lot attendant who was waving his flashlight at us. Upon entering the stadium, the smell of overly salty, buttery popcorn permeated our nostrils as my little-girl eyes widened in delight! Hotdogs glistened and rolled on the rotisserie, waiting for their place in a soft white, doughy bun. When my father said, “Two please,” my heart skipped a beat. Upon receiving my own pleated white cardboard container, my dad taught me the finesse of filling and smothering my hotdog in ketchup, mustard, relish, and raw onions.

Money was tight, but there was always enough for a hotdog and a coke.

Settling into our seats in the vast arena was mind-boggling to all my senses. Taking small bites from my hotdog to make it last longer, my gaze lingered on the fans. And then my father pulled out the binoculars! So much for the eyes to see! I marvelled at the faces, families, and what others were doing. And then, while encased in my viewing pleasure, I instantly covered my ears at the earth-shattering eruption of screams. I had no idea what was happening…

In a daze of bewilderment, fear gripped me because I thought an atomic bomb had gone off. Then, gazing up into my father’s face and seeing his wide-open grin, I said, “What happened, daddy? Is everything okay?”

The fans had erupted into cheers, shouts, and applause as our team scored a goal! Completely taken aback, my dad laughed out loud at my question and fearful look. He then reassured me that our team had just scored a goal, and that’s what happens when the fans get excited.

I can still hear him repeatedly telling the story of my first live hockey game.

“All hockey players are bilingual. They know English and profanity.”

-Gordie Howe, also known as “Mr. Hockey.”

Me and Gordie Howe at his 80^th Birthday party, I will save the story of this event for another time.

Gordie Howe

Born March 31, 1928, at Floral Saskatchewan

1071 Career Goals

1518 Career Assists

2589 Career Points

Inducted into the Hall of Fame 1972

In loving memory 1928 – 2016

For me, November is a time of hunkering down, settling in, nesting, taking life a little slower and reminiscing about days gone by.

The weather does that to us. Furthermore, we often use the topic during awkward moments. Talking about the weather is a great way to fill in the space when the conversation is lagging. People tend to light up when the subject of climate comes up. We love to talk about the cherry blossoms in the spring, the overly hot, sticky summers, the crisp fall mornings and how quickly the leaves might be turning. And when the rain is coming down, we like to say, “Wow, it sure is coming down out there.”

“Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass. It’s about learning to dance in the rain.”

-Vivian Greene

A November day is like any other, until the rain falls and becomes a bother

We lay low in the hearth of the home, and soon the sun will make us roam…

-Karen Harmon

If my blog brings up some of your fond memories, please share them in the comments below.

By Karen Harmon

“Memories warm you up from the inside. But also tear you apart.“

– Haruki Murakami (Kafka on the Shore)

WARNING; this blog contains some hard questions that may be beneficial to your health.

F.A.Q.: “I have read your books, and I marvel at your memory. How on earth can you remember so much from your childhood?”

Answer: “I was taught storytelling from my father, but it was not until I started writing down my memories that my past became much clearer.  The more I wrote, the more I remembered.”

When thinking about your childhood, do the memories bring on warm fuzzy feelings and fond thoughts of days gone by? Is walking down memory lane a gentle stroll that invites you to meander peacefully? Do recollections of your mother’s embrace, swimming at the lake, or graduating high school make you smile and fill you with gratitude for a life well-lived?

OR

Do you experience an adrenaline rush of nameless panic, terror, and despair? Are your recollections foggy, few, and far between? Does your past appear like a hard shove into yesteryear, with doors slamming and windows that are dismal and murky? Do recollections of a hurtful word and an embarrassing moment engulf you with debilitating shame? Perhaps flashbacks of an angry parent, a harsh teacher, and toxic relationships cause you to block out parts of your life and establish a habit of avoidance when thinking of the past?

My thoughts and opinions on this subject are just that, my own. But since I have been working on myself (for what seems like forever), my views might interest you.

So, here goes…

The actions that others inflicted upon you were not your fault, and quite frankly, had nothing to do with you. An instruction manual was not attached to your bottom when you were born. Your parents were often flying by the seat of their pants, as their parents had done before them.

More times than not, an eclectic version of days gone by can be readily accessed by all of us, unless those memories are buried and locked away, too painful to access. Sometimes it is out of fear, or maybe you sum up the past as just a form of life lessons?  Perhaps you think I am not that person anymore. So can we please just move on?!

Remembering is not easy.

While perusing social media, it has come to my attention that Facebook pages, Instagram posts, Twitter accounts, and Subreddits showcase looking back as a significant pastime. I am sure you have seen them too, titles such as, Remember the 80s, The Psychedelic 70s, Bring Back the 60s, or Meanwhile, Back in the 50s…

All groups seem to profess the same thing—their era was the best and the most fun, with common phrases such as “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” and various memes like “To all of you that still listen to 80s music, cheers”  or “Sometimes I wish I could just rewind to the old days and press pause… just for a little while.”

The whimsical collection of reminiscent anecdotes and humorous illustrations state each era’s childhood or teenage years were the easiest to get through, the grooviest, and simply the best time in their lives. Often these groups feel sorry for people from other eras and other groups. Or they gloat and boast in a comedic teasing and taunting sort of way.

My point remains—many of us can find joy in reminiscing, whereas many find only pain.

Meanwhile

Medical journals that promote health and well-being, acclaimed by physicians, psychologists, therapists, counsellors, analysts, advisers, life coaches, and even some gurus, express that we often suffer extreme consequences by not addressing the root cause of our pain. For example, it has been proven that carrying around past hurts and trauma can lead to addiction, depression, and other health issues.

Consequently, problems at work, at home, and in our relationships will arise if we cannot access those bad feelings and skeletons in our closets.

When a harrowing experience is recorded as a memory, the emotional charge of that memory makes it so potent that our brain sometimes sends false signals, warning us that specific thoughts and reflections are detrimental. We just might perish if we stir things up. The agony may feel unbearable. As a result, we block it out, push it down, reach for a drink or a cookie, take a pill, or smoke something other than a cigarette, or perhaps both. Which in turn numbs the pain while still being socially acceptable. However, these stimulants do not take the pain away.   Rather, each in turn prevents us from remembering and sharing our past.

What if the same amount of acceptance was given to our fears and tears, as to our happiness and joy?

Stop crying, or I will give you something to cry about. Many of us were raised with this demand. Therefore, we learned early on to stifle our tears, to trap and lock down our pain, leaving it to eventually fester and implode.

We try to bury and forget the bad stuff, but for some reason, through the hands of time, the ticking of the clock, the turning page of each calendar year, the icky parts have a way of reappearing and surfacing in one way, shape or form. We become triggered by the world around us and specific acts of others—someone cutting us off while driving; the way a sales clerk looks or doesn’t look at us; a waiter who takes longer to bring our food; a crying child, a barking dog or a person sitting next to us chewing food loudly. And the list goes on. We may snap back at the individuals or share what a jerk they are or how this one incident ruined our entire day.

Perhaps there is a reason why we struggle with topics of current prominence in our society, because they do act as triggers. Why do people not get my point? we might think.

Is it simply the actions of others that set us off and annoy us, bringing our past hurts and early trauma to the surface? Maybe their patterns are clashing with our patterns?

Mental health oppression at its core is the suppression of emotions.

What if the same amount of acceptance was given to our fears and tears as to our joy and happiness? I am repeating this, as it is worth repeating.

The by-product of remembering is the feelings that arise. 

Through conjuring the memories of my past hurts, I have learned a lot about myself.  Unequivocally, my personality can be a tad quirky, sometimes eccentric, and some say, “witty, kind, and empathetic.” Relatable to some and comical to others. The road I have walked, my past experiences, and the path I chose or accidentally fell onto, consequently have (obviously) made me who I am.

I have grown to like myself, and hopefully, it shows. However, the process of remembering and working through the complex parts of my past was not initially all feelings of happiness, contentment, and joy.

The following thoughts are hard to admit…

It’s not over yet, the healing and growing part. But my fear has subsided immensely, and now I look forward to and anticipate the bumps along the way—or the potholes from my past. For those who know me, I have always avoided adversity and confrontation, at all costs. But, for the record, I am starting to welcome it—sort of…

The first time I went for counselling, I thought I would fix a struggling and broken marriage. What I ended up working on was the aftermath of the death of my father and my mother’s mood swings. That old “layers of the onion” routine.

Some of MY tricky bits

Growing up, our home was sparsely decorated. My mother did not sew or profess to be a Suzy-Homemaker type. I was not deliberately taught life lessons, but was rather told what to do, and never why. When I was four, my mom had me practice printing my name on the back of an envelope that contained the heating bill, as we were flying out the door to kindergarten. One time she smashed a whole stack of dirty dishes on the kitchen floor in a state of frustration. She often stated to anyone within earshot that I was horrible at math and not athletic. She wore floral print house dresses with wadded-up Kleenex in her pockets, while all my friend’s moms looked considerably different. Sometimes she even wore a wig that looked like a helmet with curly hair sprouting from it. My mom never hugged me or said I love you. I was the youngest of four.

At first, these memories hurt and made me feel sad, until I investigated further.

I wrote my story and took the plunge by walking down memory lane, no matter how dark it sometimes got. In doing so, my mother’s love became crystal clear.

Sometimes we discover good in the not-so-good.

The bad memories brought good ones. I saw my mother’s eyes shining with admiration every time I spoke. I felt my mom’s intolerance towards my teachers when many of them stated there was no use in Karen going to university. I had visions of a kitchen chair dappled in flour, with me standing on it next to my mother as my tiny arm stirred while she measured ingredients. She always left just enough on the wooden spoon, the beaters, or inside the mixing bowl for me to taste the cookie dough. She was always very frugal. On one occasion, we made baking powder biscuits and cornbread for my Grade four class because the teacher asked for volunteers. I beamed with pride when Mrs. Macleod complimented me on how perfect they were.

When my dad took my brothers fishing, my mother and I went to movie matinees over town. During these flashbacks, I was reminded that our car ride was filled with chatter between my mother and me. Her heartfelt stories entertained me and gave me a window into how it used to be in “the olden days.” Swimming lessons and skating lessons were a constant, and so was the memory of my mother sitting on a hard bench, nose in a book, rarely looking up to cheer me on. But she was there.  Sharing salty crinkle french fries from the concession stand after the lessons made everything worthwhile. I can still see my folks holding hands, going on fancy dates and vacations. They set an example of how a relationship could be. They rarely argued and always laughed at each other’s jokes. I gained a sense of humour from my parents.

My mother’s love was hugely evident once I could get past the ambiguity of sorrow. These fond memories (that accompanied the bad ones) appeared like magic. I discovered my mom was the best mom for me, and I would not trade her for the world. The good feelings are more robust now. I weeded out the bad ones and mowed them down.

Ultimately my recollections and writing about them have brought me tremendous healing, and therefore, peace.

All in all…

The past can feel like a scary, foreign country; they do things differently there, but it is worth the journey back. I know you will not regret it.

What about you?

Can you evaluate yourself and pinpoint a time from your past that was painful, upsetting, and even life-changing? Maybe it hurts way too much to think about. If that is so, may I just say, “Please try. You won’t be sorry. There is a light at the end of the tunnel, and if you can bring yourself to venture in, I will encourage you on with a ‘Way to go!’”

Here is your Assignment

Share one hard memory with a close friend or a counsellor. NOTE: Being a good listener is essential when receiving someone else’s truth, blow-by-blow, and version of their story. I highly recommend you choose to share your difficult, scary memories with a person who does not interrupt you but rather JUST LISTENS. Better yet, before sharing, set the stage by asking the person if they have time and space to listen and then you will do the same for them. Explain before you do the exercise that advice and a solution to your past hurts are not required, but just to listen, please.  

Summing up, I say, “dust off the cobwebs, dig deep and expel the whole jarring ordeal to a trusted, tried and true friend or counsellor.”

The by-product of remembering is the feelings that arise.

We remember

We survive

We heal

We are

We

WE are all unique and wonderfully made and in this together.

R.I.P.

Mary Frances Lillian Bonner

1921 – 2007

“People say graffiti is ugly, irresponsible and childish…but that’s only if it is done properly.”

-Banksy, Wall and Piece

Street Art, also known as Graffiti, is a controversial topic. Even though Banksy, a pseudonymous street artist based in the UK, is a political activist, film director, and world-renowned, many people frown and negatively think of his graffiti as NOT art. Others look to him as an inspirational trailblazer and mentor.

I am told that wherever you are in your writing journey, you should anticipate and embrace controversy.

The word controversy is from the Latin word controversia, which means “turned in an opposite direction.” In the twentieth century, we are more apt to say that controversy is a prolonged public dispute or debate, usually concerning a matter of conflicting opinion or point of view.

Here’s where I come in

As a person who dislikes controversy and steers clear of disputes, arguments, and rocking the boat, the title for my next book seems out of character and unlike anything I would ever say. It may be controversial to some, upsetting to others, thought-provoking and yet relatable to many.

Even though controversial topics such as global climate change, evolution, capital punishment, and marriage equality are considered some of the most debated issues, I feel like my life has had its fair share of controversy too. Primarily based on bad decisions I have made and regrettable things that I have done.  

People who know me see me as calm and at peace. I laugh easily and smile freely. I am mainly agreeable and try to see all sides to the point of view. However, sometimes my empathy for others is unbearable and causes me great distress.

Yet, as I go about my day-to-day activities, it feels ironic that my past had many ups and downs. My mother struggled with mental health, and my father experienced extreme poverty and despair. He came from a broken home and was abandoned. They both tried to cover up their pasts and did so quite well, but small remnants crept out of hiding when I least expected.

Meanwhile, my struggles brought me where I am today, and strangely enough, even though I used to wish for a different life, now that I am older, I would not change a thing.

I recently learned that unbeknownst to me, my older sister had her fair share of strife too. But I will get back to her in a moment.

Conclusively, we ALL have a story to tell. We have personal experiences and knowledge of places and topics. Moreover, when writing about our harrowing adventures or humorous escapades, we can portray ourselves as wise and seasoned; we can walk the walk and talk the talk because we “have been there, done that.” Or perhaps we are still battling the demons that haunt us, and we are smack dab in the middle of figuring things out, consequently blocking out our past hurts and trauma. Therefore, we are not ready yet to look at what shaped us or share with anyone about our sleepless nights and what it is that plagues us.

What about this…

If you could give your life a title, like a book title, I wonder what it would be? One thing I do know is that it would belong to you and be relative to your story.

Your journey is unique, and your title would be meaningful and reflective of who you were then or who you are now.

If you were to publish a memoir, the telling of your story could bring you and others tremendous healing. But this makes me wonder, would your book be suspenseful and dramatic? Poignant and powerful? Intriguing, informative, and inspirational? Would you share the bold truth, or a peripheral narrative that was eventless and mundane? Only you can answer that question. In one way or another, your options are vast and endless as to what your book would contain and what the title might be.

Controversial or not, telling your story and the version you write about is entirely up to you.

Back to me…

Many of my followers and readers have expressed how my books have brought clarity to their struggles. I have been told that my past recollections remind the reader of their past. Some find my historical moments in time educational and interesting—the references to music, people, places, and things memorable and notable. My black and white photos are said to be haunting or heartwarming.

Opinions of my memoirs vary from reader to reader.

Above all else, in my books and blogs, I bring to the forefront that everyone is unique and diverse, yet we share similarities.

Without sounding boastful, but rather spoken more like a parent, I genuinely love my first and second books, separately, for entirely different reasons.

How my book titles came to be

My first book Looking for Normal, was published in 2018 and was an experimental first attempt to try my luck at being a writer. It was also meant to record my family’s history, warts and all—unvarnished, up-front, and honest.

I chose the title based on an Erma Bombeck quote, “Normal is just a setting on your dryer.” Combined with the title of her book The Grass is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank, to me, both quotes emphasize that there is no such thing as normal. Not one person is perfect, nor is one single family free of adversity.

Ultimately, family history is just that, a record of yesteryear—a remembrance of days gone by and a road map as to how people coped and found their way in amongst hardship and misfortune, joy and sorrow.

By learning about our ancestors, sometimes we can dissolve the old road map and create a new one. For example, twists and turns our relatives took could be changed into a much smoother path for us, based on learning from the mistakes they made. Thus, we can change the narrative of our life.

My second book, Where is My Happy Ending? A Journey of No Regrets was published in 2020 and holds a title that was much trickier for me to come up with. I needed a title that captured the non-truth of fairy tales, harlequin romance novels, and movies from the Hallmark television channel. I noticed that many women shared the sentiment of my title, —as in, where is my happy ending?

But, honestly, where is it?!!!!

Oprah Winfrey called this way of thinking a Cinderella Complex.

In 1981 Oprah had author Colette Dowling on her show. She wrote a book called, The Cinderella Complex: Women’s Hidden Fear of Independence. Dowling theorized that women are traditionally conditioned from birth to depend on others, particularly men, for their emotional, financial, and physical safety. Dowling used the analogy of the fairy tale character Cinderella, who cooks and cleans for her abusive stepmother but ultimately is rescued and cared for by “Prince Charming.” Her book and appearance on Oprah’s talk show brought her book title worldwide public attention.

Rightly so!

For example, as a child, I dreamed of moving out and getting a boyfriend. From my teens and well into my twenties, I was perpetually searching for Mr. Right and, on more than one occasion, ended up with Mr. Wrong.

I wrote this book for anyone who may have had similar thoughts and trials as me.

The title, Where is My Happy Ending? could have changed many times over, yet the elements for the book would have stayed the same.

“I no longer believe in happy endings, but I do believe in happiness and working towards no regrets. Same-same but different.”

“Same-same but different.”

This famous Thai quote conveys vagueness towards something both the same and yet different, and therefore neither the same nor different. More personally, I first heard about this quote from my daughter while she was travelling around Thailand with her best friend—they branded themselves with matching tattoos of the famous quote “same-same but different”  Of course, since little girls, they used this term while chatting about something or other, followed with a shrug, a tilt of their heads, and a giggle, while in unison they chanted “same-same but different” when asked their thoughts on any given topic.

Controversial? There’s that word again. A meaningful, artistic ink drawing, a tattoo, is open to question but not to everyone. Some may have a difference of opinion or feel that a tattoo is okay for someone else but not for them. All three of my children and my husband have one or more tattoos. My skin is void of anything permanently pictorial, decorative, and symbolic. However, I have secretly always wanted one.

But wait…

Here it is, 2021, and my next book will be published this year.

Why?

Because my sister asked me to write her life story.

Combined with her request were messages and reviews from my readers wondering when my next book was coming out. Both inquiries propelled me forward to churn out my third book.

I said, “Yes, let’s do it!”

Writing a book for someone else proved to be easier said than done, but still enjoyable, nonetheless.

To get the ball rolling, my sister and I started talking on the phone once a week. We laughed and cried at how remarkably different our lives had been. Yet, we were open-minded as to how we barely knew each other. We combed through foggy memories and relished them, becoming more transparent as we spoke. We both took notes during these calls. From those notes, my much older sister wrote and sent me beautiful handwritten letters telling me about her adventurous and often challenging life.

And boy oh boy, does she ever have a story to tell!

We communicated this way for one year and significantly looked forward to our time together each week.

I would write and write between phone calls and letters—kind of like a homework assignment from an overseas teacher.

As the manuscript came together, I started to anticipate what my readers would think. Would the story be relatable like my other books had been? Would my sister’s obstacles be well received? Would it make people who read it laugh, cry and grieve? I hoped and wondered.

I have received over one hundred positive ratings and book reviews on my first two books, so I did not want to disappoint with my third.

Those reviews always seemed to be heartfelt, encouraging, and endearing. A common theme has been that my life story, complete with controversial issues, caused feelings to come up and flashbacks to occur for my readers, which is every writer’s dream.

The comments encouraged me to keep writing. Concurrently the reviews caused me to become ill in a good way, rather like being lovesick with a tremendous case of “the writing bug.”

Here is an example:

Thank you, Amazon Customer and the many others who have contacted me. It has all been a heady experience, both flattering and rewarding.

Circling back…

When choosing a book, we look to the title as the first introduction of the book. Then, we select a cover that grabs our attention. A good book title should be both memorable and unique. Identifiable and unforgettable.

As a writer, I know the title is my reader’s first impression, essentially judging my book by its cover.

With that being said…

I want to show you the cover of my next book. The introduction at the beginning of the book brings light to the title. They go together like P.B. & J, Coffee and Cream, salt and pepper, Captain and Tennille, rock and roll and so on…

Without the introduction, the title might not make sense. Conversely, the introduction would fall flat and not be as impactful without that specific title. Thus, a good title is crucial.

If my title appears controversial to you, I ask that you dig a little deeper. Read the introduction, contemplate what the book is about and consider that maybe, just maybe, my sister and I were going for a bit of controversy. As unexpected as that may sound coming from two nonconfrontational sisters, we wanted to shake things up, bring awareness, hopefully enlighten, and most importantly, challenge you, the reader.

Even though my third book is about my sister, I kept you in mind while writing it. I considered what you told me. Your likes and dislikes. Your life. How your past has shaped you and how you have tried to move forward.

Stay tuned for the whole meaning of my title when the book becomes available in the Fall of 2021

Patience is a virtue.

Some may think three published books a major feat or a dream come true. On the contrary, (to me) I see it as a lot of work that has been highly therapeutic and life-changing. Rewarding and a sure-fire way to reach others who may have had similar struggles as me. And my sister.

Okay, okay, I’ll admit it, it is a dream come true and a significant feat—especially something not to be taken lightly.

From your comments, ratings, and reviews, I am learning we are together on this planet, but we often feel alone, and it doesn’t have to be that way.

Stay tuned as the estimated time of arrival for Fat and Beautiful – A Story of Love, Pain and Courage will be sometime in the Fall of 2021.

And if you haven’t done so yet, I would be honoured if you looked up my first two books Looking for Normal and Where is My Happy Ending? – A Journey of No Regrets

You can find all my books online or in person at the Chapters in Kamloops, B.C.

Alternatively, go on the internet and order from the following sites:

amazon.ca amazon.com amazon.uk

Chapters/Indigo

Barnes and Noble

And many other places where books are sold.

Looking for Normal

 by Karen Harmon

Where is My Happy Ending? A Journey of No Regrets

by Karen Harmon

You Are What You Eat—You Are What You Read

As a Fitness Expert, I have been instructing exercise classes since 1980. I know that must make me sound old, but as the saying goes, with age comes wisdom. So, as it stands with every flip of the calendar, I am much wiser.

During the course of my career, I can honestly say that I have heard every diet, weight loss regime, and strategy in the book for losing weight; all enlisted for the betterment of good health internally and externally.

My observation is this: striving for balance is the key to longevity and happiness in life.

However, everyone needs to figure this out for themselves. If it is weight loss you are looking for, change your eating habits, exercise, and burn more calories than you are consuming. Alternatively, you can take in fewer calories and work at becoming stronger.

Both concepts are basically the same and are scientifically proven to work.

Let it be known, I am a firm believer of not depriving yourself, so eat, drink, and be merry!

Health tip: calories in the food we eat provide energy so our bodies can function. Therefore, we need to eat a certain number of calories to sustain life. If we take in too many calories than we are utilizing, we will gain weight. BUT not all calories are the same. As a comparison, a regular chocolate bar is one hundred and fifty calories, coincidentally the same as thirty cups of lettuce.

If we understand what a calorie is and why we count them, we can make better dietary choices, with “choice” being the keyword in all aspects of our lives, not just with the food we eat. Freedom of choice is a big deal that we often pride ourselves on having.

This brings me to the second part of my blog’s title.

You Are What You Read

I started reading memoirs and biographies in my 20s. They became my go-to genre and first choice in reading material. Personal histories and self-portrayals intrigued me.

I picked books that were on Oprah’s book list, in addition to referrals from friends, and as it turned out, almost every book I read was a memoir. Fast forward 40 years later, and with two memoirs written and published, now under my belt, and a third one coming out soon, I still prefer to read anything and everything that is non-fiction.

Through self-discovery, trial and error, I discovered that I know what I like, and I like what I know. I am fascinated by how others tick. I love to learn and find great pleasure in other people’s lives and the choices they make.

Therefore…

I am not embarrassed to say that memoirs and biographies round out my entire reading list. Unless of course, my Book Club suggests otherwise, the women from my group and their choices in reading material have taught me a lot. For this I am grateful.

I have tried to read other genres, and what comes close to my taste are fiction books about families and family dysfunction, even if they are not true. Where the Crawdads Sing by Delia Owens and Dear Edward by Ann Napolitano are two great examples of books that I thoroughly enjoyed, both being written in the context of fiction. Sometimes, I find myself secretly pretending books such as these are non-fiction, and in reality, are accurate accounts from someone else’s life, somewhat like a memoir incognito.

Yet, many people do not share my likes and dislikes, and I understand this. Of course, to each his own. Differences are what make the world go round and so on… I respect and appreciate that we cannot like the same reading material as the next person. It would be silly, boring, and rude to think otherwise.

When I first realized that memoirs are not everyone’s cup of tea for “getting lost in a book,” it boggled my mind. It was hard for me to fathom that others did not enjoy delving into a true story about unique, eclectic lives brought together by pain and sorrow, joy and success; individuals who have conquered and gotten through trauma and tragedy; stories and blow-by-blows about people like myself, who have come out better on the other side of their struggles, or perhaps worse.

I found this out the hard way after my second book was published. After writing about the intimate details of my life, overall, the feedback was remarkable. I received a lot of five-star reviews and an award. I felt accomplished and was proud that my goal to help others who share similar struggles was realized. By the many reviews and book sales, I felt that I was reaching others.

However, eventually, my bubble was burst, and my self-esteem plummeted when two people shared their distaste for my story. This felt crushing, and as I assessed their comments in bewilderment, I wondered how they could find fault with my story since it was just that—my story.

Essentially, I took their thoughts and opinion far too personally.

As it stands, they did not care for my book, period. Which does not mean their disheartening and unnerving reviews reflected who I am as a writer or human being. This, I sincerely hope is true.

Those two negative reviews became a turning point for me. We all know the old saying, “We can’t please everyone,” even if it is in our nature to want to please most people most of the time.

I say this in pleasantry as I continue to move forward, writing, unravelling, and healing from my past and finding incredible empathy for others who write and divulge the secrets and mysteries behind their lives. Their true accounts of drama, humour, hard times, good times, and more, can be absorbing and helpful.

Now, I understand a bad review

All in all, I can completely grasp why someone would not care for the harsh reality that only a memoir brings. It might dredge up the pain, hurt, and even annoyance of their own past lives. It possibly sounds like minutiae and someone droning on about the injustices in life, grief and healing, and how people have wronged them.

Some might read a memoir and say in their head, blah, blah, blah or yada, yada, yada followed with…

Really? Do we always have to be learning something? And, who cares?

Can we not just get lost in science fiction, horror, mystery, or a Harlequin Romance once in a while?

I say a wholehearted yes!

To each his own, we all have choices, and I embrace that. The bottom line is to read.

My mother was an avid reader and said to me once, “I don’t care what you read, just read something!” With that being said, as a youngster, I chose Archie comic books. Every other Saturday, my mother took me to the comic bookstore in North Vancouver, where I lived. Sometimes I traded my comics in, and sometimes (if I were lucky, or she was in a good mood), I would get a brand new, crisp, never-before-read comic book. I can still smell the old worn books and see the colourful, encased plastic sleeve of the new ones. The experience of having an avid comic book enthusiast behind the cash register freely offering wisdom and know-how is still etched in my mind.

Eventually, I became obsessed with Betty and Veronica and wanted to look just like them. But I will save that topic for another blog…eye-rolling emoji here.

If you enjoy memoirs, you might like to read mine.

OR CHECK THIS OUT…

I was asked to choose and review five of my favourite books. You know, the book that you never wanted to end. Or the characters that stay with you, and their circumstance pops into your head periodically—sometimes, we feel so connected to them that we often wonder how they are doing now.

If you click on the link below, you will find a creative new way to read reviews, and you can see my five choices.

“Shepherd is a book discovery website that is like wandering the aisles of your favourite bookstore. Along with little notes from authors pointing out their favourite books.”

-Ben, creator

https://shepherd.com/best-books/mental-health-addiction-and-families #reading #books

These five books have inspired me, educated me and caused me to continue writing with the best storytelling visuals I can muster. Click on the link to view them.

AND guess what?

One of the books in my recommendations is not a memoir.

I Hate the Term “Less Fortunate”

By Karen Harmon

With the recent cold snap promised for Vancouver, the city where I live, I am reminded of what my husband does for a living. He manages a homeless shelter.

As part of his job, he checks the weather daily, if not hourly, to predict the outdoor elements for people living on the streets. The weather is often a topic of conversation in our home, in addition to the growing number of impoverished people, consequences of living outdoors, and possible solutions.

So far, in our at-home discussions, we have not been able to figure out any quick fixes, Band-Aids, or a perfect medley of remedies.

We have noticed there seems to be more overall awareness— how can one not see that the numbers keep increasing? We can all agree that when we drive or walk past a street person, we are reminded of just how dismal and unmanageable the homeless situation has become.

In 2010 I was asked to teach a marginalized fitness class for people in my community. I was hired by a Community Center that shared a vision with a Pastor of a local Church.

Some might call this Church an inner-city church with a mission to help those who might have fallen on hard times. I call this Church a saving grace and a genuine example of loving others unconditionally.

The number one definition from the dictionary for the word marginalized reads like this: placed in a position of little or no importance, influence, or power.

To that definition, I want to say, “Excuse me?!” Perhaps it is an accurate summary, but why does it sound so heartless and mean? I suppose that is the purpose of a dictionary. They give us the facts and only the facts.

With his vision, the pastor believes that everyone has a right to mental, emotional, spiritual, physical, and financial health and well-being. Sounds very factual to me.

So, he started a group called Coffee Time.

No Strings Attached

Coffee Time is a warm place where people are welcomed in, greeted with a friendly face, a cup of coffee, and a snack. They can listen to a user-friendly sermon that offers a gentle message of hope and kindness. They are not judged. Everyone is given a ten-dollar grocery voucher and asked if they need prayer, a friend, or someone who can listen and hear them. Maybe they need assistance with their income tax, a place to stay, or a pair of shoes. The needs can be endless when a person is marginalized. Volunteers from the church offer support.

Once a week on the same day, one hour before Coffee Time, individuals are offered an exercise class taught by me. It is called the Active Living Program—a free 45-minute exercise class intended for people who cannot afford gym fees, or better yet, would not feel comfortable or even accepted in such an environment.

My class provides a non-judgemental place to socialize, stretch, strengthen, and feel welcome, with uplifting music and explicit basic instruction interspersed with encouragement. Each lesson consists of easy to follow, functional exercises, concluding with a 20-minute stretching and relaxation component with positive, relaxing visualizations and deep healing meditation.

During the warmup, when catchy tunes are playing, participants have been known to break away from the routine to dance with one another. These carefree actions are a testimony to the fun element that is inspired. Conversely, during the relaxation segment, some individuals seemingly take a moment for a well-needed cat nap.

A sense of community has developed with the participants over the last ten years.

Everyone who attends this program has seen results and changes mentally, emotionally, socially, and physically.

I have witnessed immense healing, gratitude, increased self-esteem, and confidence from a community of well-deserving people.

However…

Undoubtedly all of these people, at some point in their day, experience judgement, rudeness, averted eyes, fearful glances, annoyance, and people wondering why they do not get jobs, clean up their act, or get off the streets.

I have walked in their shoes

When I was thirty-two years old, I was on the verge of being homeless. Thankfully, I had love and kindness displayed to me, and I was instilled with hope and courage from an early age. I was not abused physically, mentally, or emotionally. However, things could have turned out differently for me, much worse and more detrimental to myself and my children. The excerpt below describes my first day in low-income housing and on the threshold of collecting welfare.

Where is My Happy Ending? – A Journey of No Regrets

CHAPTER 1
Starting Over
1992
“I looked around the cluttered living room, assessing the damage, until I spotted the soft curls on my four-year-old daughter’s head as she sat with her little sister in an empty packing box. Both were contentedly colouring: Jessica carefully trying to stay in the lines while Emma, sitting as close to her big sister as possible, was eagerly scribbling.
Pondering their sisterhood with a full heart, I gazed at my daughters as if I was a bystander, lingering and wondering what would happen next. I felt like I was a person not wanting to leave the movie theatre, hanging on until the closing credits had scrolled off the screen, eventually emerging from the darkened cinema to face brilliant sunlight or perhaps a dreary evening rain.
For the last thirty-two years, I had watched the movie of my life unfold, and it seemed as though I was unable to control the course or path. Before I had arrived, the script had been written and the actors cast. As the story took on twists and turns, plot changes, and various climaxes along the way, I sat idly by, watching the series of events unfold.
Thankfully alive and seemingly unscathed, I decided that nothing was regrettable, everything was memorable, and I could learn from it all. Like any other moviegoer, I had sat patiently, waiting for the plot to thicken or the knight in shining armour to arrive. Comedic interludes were just as prevalent as the nail- biting cliff-hangers. Perhaps the happy ending was not meant to be, or maybe this, right here and now, was the happy ending, and I could not see it yet.
I was pleased with what a beautiful little girl my oldest daughter, Jessica, had become, not just outwardly but on the inside, too. Her spirit was soft and gentle, especially toward her two-year-old little sister. I realized now that she had become more of a mother to her younger sibling than I had been.
I looked deeper at Jessica’s bowed head as she filled the pages of her Cinderella colouring book, and I felt her determination. I was filled with compassion and reminded of how she worried about me, silently asking if I was okay. It was evident and showed in her constantly furrowed brow and ever-present look of concern as she stared into my eyes and pleadingly searched my face for answers. I would do my best to respond, interjecting and interrupting her deep, brooding thoughts. My father always told me that laughter was the best medicine, so as often as I could, I would engage my girls in stories, jokes, and silliness, even if it was the furthest thing from my mind.
The first thing on my to-do list was to find some semblance of order amongst the stacked boxes, furniture, and garbage bags full of clothes. I was looking forward to my new beginning, our new beginning, and a fresh start in our unfamiliar home—subsidized housing for marginalized people.
Receiving a lucky break and chosen from a long list of applicants just as needy as I was, it had only been two weeks since I had started praying, and now here we were in a two-bedroom, low-income townhouse unit, myself and two little girls. We were alone, the three musketeers, all for one and one for all.
Today I would finish unpacking, and tomorrow I would be applying for welfare. I was relieved to be free.”

Less Fortunate, but Less Fortunate than whom?

The definition from The Urban Dictionary of what the term “Less Fortunate” means is as follows…

A term used to label people who make poor decisions in life and are quick to blame those who have succeeded or have wealth. Less-fortunate is the opposite of fortunate, which is defined as “lucky; enjoying good luck,” and therefore, someone who is less-fortunate just has bad luck. Example: Katie has been divorced three times and has eight kids and cannot support them with her minimum wage job. She is less-fortunate than Sally, who studied in school, got a valuable degree, an above-average salaried position in marketing, and is happily married.

This definition is not so factual, and maybe we should erase the term entirely.

The Outside Wrapper

Remember when our mothers would tell us, “beauty is only skin deep; it’s what’s inside that counts?

As a fitness instructor, I have gone through a certification program, and I have taken various courses and classes to stay abreast of different fitness trends. I can save your life with my C.P.R. and First Aid training if you trip and fall or, heaven forbid, instantaneously go into cardiac arrest.

When I am upfront during my traditional exercise classes, I am professionally dressed, and my running shoes are pristine and clean. My microphone is securely in place. My ponytail is perfect. I have been known to wear lipstick to showcase an encouraging, friendly smile. My music is correctly uploaded from Apple Music or iTunes, and my routine is carefully planned out; the 20, 30 or 40 participants see me as their BCRPA fitness leader.

Not one single person in the class knows that I once collected welfare.

When I look out at my participants, equally dressed in their Costco Spandex, Mountain Equipment Co-op leggings, or Lululemon fashionable exercise gear, I can only see their exterior. Sometimes facial expressions or heavy shoulders can be a slight indication of what’s inside. Still, from their outside wrapper I cannot see their profession, how they were raised, or if they are lonely and hurting, on the brink of bankruptcy, or going home to an abusive situation.

I smile warmly, tell a joke or two, and offer sixty minutes to sweat, burn calories, and strive for buns of steel or washboard abs.

However, my Active Living fitness classes are different. I choose to dress more casually, move slower, be gentle and offer undivided attention. I take my time and greet each person individually. I thank them for attending and tell them how happy I am that they are there.

These participants are not striving for whittled waistlines and toned arms. They are joyous, kind, and happy to be in a community of like-minded people. They have grown to care for one another. When they pass each other on the street, they wave and smile.

My goal is to meet people where they are at.

Sometimes I think I get more out of helping others, than perhaps they get from being helped.

My point is, I see you too.

“Everyone has untold stories of pain and sadness that make them love and live differently than each of us.”

We do what we can…

We try to see past the differences of others—appearances, behaviours, and sadly, those who are impoverished, addicted and physically, mentally, and emotionally unwell. I like to think that we are all looking and striving to see inside.

We Do Our Best

We volunteer at food banks, shelters, give to the homeless, and try our best not to judge. We pray and hope for change. We are advocates. We picket, write letters, and get involved. We are annoyed at bureaucratic policies and wealthy politicians. We vote and follow the rules and protocols.

We worry, worry, worry and…

We feel fortunate to have a roof over our head, food on our table, a job, shoes, and at least one person, if not a handful of people, who love us, and we reciprocate that love.

We inhabit this earth with other humans.

Can we say we are all in the same boat?

No, probably not.

Some of us are on big cruise liners. Others take speed boats, rowboats, kayaks, or a little rubber dingy. Maybe we are floating aimlessly around in a life preserver. And sometimes, we are flailing around, about to go under with nothing keeping us afloat at all.

It is hard to live on this planet without feeling guilty or getting angry. Sometimes our empathy causes us great pain and sorrow.
We try to do what is expected of us, and often we go above and beyond.
It is not easy to follow the rules and do the paperwork when sometimes even getting out of bed and brushing our teeth is hard.

But what if…
What if we were poorly treated and abused as a child, had mental health issues, were physically disabled, had PTSD, or suffered a tremendous loss? Imagine waking up every morning soaking wet and freezing cold. Alone.

And now, imagine each of the above-described people filling out their income tax, making a dentist appointment, getting a job, or walking into a coffee shop for a piece of pie to check Facebook on their iPhone…

Perhaps my analogy makes the crisis of homelessness a little easier to understand. Life is hard. And yet, way harder for others.
By no means am I trying to guilt-trip us or make us feel bad in any way.
I know we are mostly good, and we are trying.

We care.
We are gentle.
We are kind.

Sometimes we are afraid.
I feel safe and confident in saying that I am describing you.
When we genuinely love people, we must meet them where they are, not where we think they should be. We must give them what they need, not what we think they need.

Karen’s writing comes from life experience. She grew up in a home where there was much love and joy. But, there were also mental health issues. She has attended Al anon and A.A. meetings and worked at The Maple Ridge Drug and Alcohol Treatment Center. She went to college as a single mom living in low-income housing and graduated from Douglas College as a Special Needs Teaching Assistant. Since Covid, Karen’s marginalized fitness classes have been put on hold; she volunteers weekly teaching zoom fitness classes for residents at a senior home and reads to them.
Karen has written two award-winning memoirs and writes blogs about family issues, alcohol addiction, trauma, grief, and trying to find the good in people.

For more information on Karen’s Blogs and Books go to; karenharmon.com

“If laughter is the best medicine, then crying is an important vitamin.”
-Karen

I welcome your comments

By Karen Harmon

If I Can Write a Book Then You Can Too!

In 2009, an unexpected event took place. A business that I had been working very hard on dissolved. It was a successful company six years in the making. It did well until it stopped doing well.

Then my mother died.

After the collapse of my career and my mom’s unexpected death, I packed up and moved away from the small town I had lived in for twenty years. My daughters were grown and succeeding independently, so I uprooted my eleven-year-old son and moved to an entirely different community. My marriage was on the rocks, and everything felt impossible.

Why I started writing

After moving away from friends and family, broken dreams, and what felt like wasted blood, sweat and tears, I found a place to live and enrolled my son in a new school. Much to my dismay, my husband and I temporarily separated.

The place we moved to was in a forested area on a hill overlooking the city. Every morning after dropping my son off at school, I went back up on my hill, wrapped myself in a blanket and sat outside in the back yard on my favourite lawn chair. It was late Fall. There I rested. I pondered, prayed, and weeded out the tangled gnarly bits in my brain and began the process of healing, taking some time to breathe.

We had two cats who marvelled at their new surroundings. I loved watching them explore. Sometimes brown bears would venture into our yard from the forest and sun themselves. I went inside during these times, but I took great pleasure in watching them frolic in their natural habitat, which just happened to be my back yard.

Eventually, I needed to work, so I applied and started teaching fitness at two local community centers. The exercise and oxygen to my brain assisted in helping me form new-found happy thoughts. I also began working for the school district as a teaching assistant.

Employment gave me a livelihood and a vocation gave me purpose.

As I sorted through the problematic aspects of this current disarray, I felt the insistent nudges of new beginnings. I began telling my son colourful and exciting stories about his grandfather, my dad, who had died before my son had a chance to meet him.

My father ran away from home during the Great Depression in the 1930s. At the age of thirteen, he rode boxcars to a different province. Tales of his adventures enamoured my son, and we grew closer through the storytelling. One day he said, “Why don’t you write a book, mom?” My response was, “Okay, I will.”

My Writing Process

We all know that writing a book is easier said than done.

I chose not to look at the big picture. The enormity of such a project could surely be overwhelming. I instead decided to write a story. One simple three-paragraph story. I wrote what I knew, my dad’s decision to run away. I dissected how a thirteen-year-old boy might feel, and then went on to describe the setting and his appearance. I enthusiastically researched the life and times in the 1930s. Times of poverty, hopelessness, and panic.

Before long, my three-paragraph story turned into what could be an entire chapter.

Initially, the purpose of my writing was to create a keepsake for my three children—a gift and a history lesson of where they came from. Never professing to be a literary genius, I threw all caution to the wind and kept writing.

Side Note—I did not think of myself as a writer. I disliked school, and through insecurities and low self-esteem, I assumed that I was not smart, at least not academically. Everyone in my age group, my grade, seemed brighter than me. However, I did not dwell on this observation because I had something else—I could be fun and funny, and because my father told me his life story many times over, I became an avid storyteller. The gift of imagination is a beautiful child-like quality. This was instilled by my father and has served me well.

Continuing with the process, I wrote and wrote. My computer skills were not the greatest. Everything about technology frightened me. Hence, those old feelings of not being smart arose. In sharing this with a dear friend, a woman who had already written and published a book, I was given some excellent advice. She said, “E-mail me.” I started to E-mail her all of my writing; she encouraged me and made suggestions, but mostly her reassurance is what propelled me forward.

Eventually, I learned how to make attachments and save my work. However, I needed to write all the steps down on a piece of paper, which I kept next to my computer as a reminder.

The writing process became therapeutic. My memory grew. Therefore, my recollections expanded. Sometimes I was driven to tears and, other times, laughter.

I felt a closeness to my lovely deceased parents. I cherished my time with them, telling their story. Surprisingly, I grew to relish life’s complexity, family dysfunction, nostalgia, trials, tribulations, and most of all, the healing aspects of self-discovery through my writing.

Overall, writing recharged my batteries and gave me a zest for living. Instead of watching television at night, I could hardly wait to get to my writing.

In the midst of this beautiful time, my husband and I were able to work out our differences and get back together.

How I Published

Being a novice writer and “not a literary genius,” I had no clue how to get my work published. Optimistic and somewhat naïve, I assumed I would send my manuscript off to Penguin Books, Harper Collins, or Simon and Schuster.

Not so fast…

After I wrote and wrote about my father, before I could even think about publishing, I realized the content was not enough. I needed more material. So, I delved into my mother’s struggle with mental illness. Subsequently, I healed some more.

In the meantime, my son became YouTube famous. I will save that story for another time, but practically overnight, he became a world traveller. This was all to enhance his YouTube career, meet fans, dance, make videos, and create brand deals.

Only thirteen years old, he needed a chaperone. Of course, I as his mother, was the perfect person for the job. We travelled, he performed, and I continued writing.

On a trip to Santa Monica, California, he had meetings to attend and much to my trepidation, he asked if he could go by himself. Other YouTubers had invited him to film and network, so I said yes. He was older by then. I gathered that no fifteen-year-old wants their fifty-year-old mother traipsing after them in sensible shoes and a bedazzled backpack.

Therefore, I had a lot of time on my hands. Instead of accompanying my son, I ventured out to various coffee shops and set up my laptop alongside cool hipster people drinking coffee, and I kept on writing. Alone, surrounded by strangers, I convinced myself that I was ready to publish.

Having no idea about Algorithms and how the vast arena of search engines work, I started to get advertisements on my iPhone, primarily on Facebook and Instagram, about self-publishing. This, to me, was like divine intervention. How remarkable, I thought; seemingly mystical in the theme of, “Wow, publishing my manuscript is meant to be, look at all the signs!”

Since then, I have discovered how the internet can be a friend, foe, and wealth of information. It is often confusing and sometimes scary. Falsehoods and too much information can certainly be a deterrent when trying to make a decision. Now I laugh about those sneaky Algorithms.

Yet, in that Santa Monica coffee shop, sipping a cinnamon-laced Latte, there came a dull roar in my brain that chanted, go for it, publish, publish, publish.

Advertisements for Tellwell Publishing kept appearing, asking me if I wanted to fill out a questionnaire. No strings attached, just a form to see if I was a writer in the making and someone capable of possibly publishing a book—with their assistance, of course.

I liked the idea. It reminded me of those quizzes some of us filled out from magazines when we were younger—questionnaires designed to help us discover personality traits, career paths, or if the man we had chosen was the right one.

Shortly after completing the extensive form, I was emailed a response. It stated that my story is worthy of being published by the information that I submitted. I was asked if an agent could contact me to discuss my options. I instantly became wary. But I said yes to a phone call.

After the phone call, the representative emailed me a list of three publishing packages without any expectations or pressure—the cost of each and what they all entailed.

There was an option for a monthly payment plan, and what stood out most was their promise of step by step publishing assistance and support. A design team would help me with the front and back cover. Also included was the interior and exterior layout, an ISBN and a marketing plan. They pledged to answer my questions in a twenty-four-hour time frame. I was ensured they would list my book on all the major bookselling sites.

Choosing the cheapest package, I told no one about my endeavour. I said yes, and the book publishing process was set in motion.

I recommend choosing two people you highly trust, mentor types to share your thoughts and publishing plans with. I went at it alone for fear of being judged. Now I say, who cares what people think.

There will be naysayers along the way. There always is. These are the people you might want to steer clear of when sharing your hopes, desires, and dreams. They will only squelch you. Wise, supportive people are best. And try to narrow it down to just a few. No sense in spouting off all your book writing ideas to every contact on your email list. At least not right away.

Why You Should Get an Editor

The best source of guidance came from my editor. Please do not think of publishing your book without one.

Looking back, I could not have written and published two award-winning books without her. I would never have made all of my invested money back, which did eventually happen.

The difference between hiring an editor and not hiring an editor is, in my opinion, monumental. An editor will ensure that your book is readable, professional, marketable and acclaimed. Plus, they pick up things we as astute over-zealous writers may miss.

For example, would you hire a plumber to clean your teeth? No, of course not! A plumber is needed to fix a drain, among other things, while an editor is required to improve a manuscript.

I visualized my book as a beautiful house I was building, my dream home. My editor was the city planner that said, “This needs to go here, and that needs to go there.” She also became an interior decorator and a housekeeper. Without her expertise, I am sure my home would not have been presentable and may have been reduced to rubble.

Your manuscript is your baby. Just like you would interview different daycares for your child, make sure the editor you choose is the right fit. Tell them your vision and be open to their suggestions. Professional editors know what to do, and they will not lead you astray. But as I said, it is your story, so do not be afraid to speak up.

Stop Thinking and Write It!

My best advice is to try what I did. Think back to a memory or an idea you have and plan to write three paragraphs about it. That way, you will not overwhelm yourself. Start with a topic you are familiar with. Afterwards, go back and add detail.

You may want to write a memoir, fiction, non-fiction, sci-fi, children, self-help…your options are endless.

Libraries are still an excellent source for research. They are inviting and somewhat forgotten in this age of Google, Reddit, YouTube and various other sites. The library near my home smells of books and coffee. They have comfy chairs and proper desks to work at.

My favourite place to write is in my bed with my dog curled up beside me. I usually write on Sundays. Pick a day and time that works best for you.

You have to start somewhere. Break it down and do not look at the big picture. At least not at the beginning.

When my daughter Emma was a little girl, she had a terrible time cleaning her room. She would look at the mess and give up even before she got started tidying.

I came up with a strategy. Breaking down all the room cleaning tasks, I wrote every job on slips of paper. Put books away, pick up barbie dolls, fold clothes, bring dirty dishes to the kitchen, make your bed, dust, etc.…We then folded up the pieces of paper and put them in a hat. One at a time, she took out a piece of paper, read the task, did what was written on the paper. Voila, in less than an hour, her room was spotless.

The first piece of paper I would put in your hat would be, open up your computer and write three paragraphs.

Sometimes I am over the top optimistic, but I genuinely enjoy helping others, so please feel free to check out my social media sites, website and email me. I would like to hear your story, and I am willing to offer you suggestions and encouragement that may help you bring your writing dreams to fruition.

I know you can do it. Happy writing!

karmon70@gmail.com

https://karenharmonauthor.com/

https://www.instagram.com/karenharmonn

https://www.facebook.com/karenharmonauthor/

https://www.linkedin.com/in/karen-harmon-a2a08027/

I Married an Alcoholic

By Karen Harmon

January 1, 2021

“A person who drinks too much on occasion is still the same as they were sober. An alcoholic, a real alcoholic, is not the same person at all. You cannot predict anything about them except they will become someone you never met before.”

-Raymond Chandler, The Long Goodbye

He was sweet, a little bit shy, and handsome, reminding me of my dad. I adored my alcoholic husband. I did not know he had a drinking problem when we met. We were in our early twenties then, and as young people, we all liked to party, having drinks on the weekend, listening to music, and hanging out with friends.

When I walked down the aisle to marry him, I suspected that he might overindulge from time to time. There were signs, but I loved him. All I wanted was a husband, a baby, and a home.

In a sense, my father walked me down the aisle as if he was unknowingly dropping me off to spend my life with a stranger, someone that I should be fending off rather than joining in wedded bliss. If I could have predicted the future, I might have chosen someone else. But in retrospect, it was best that I did not know what the future held.

I tried very hard to fix my husband throughout our marriage, to change him and make him into the man I wanted him to be. I cried, pleaded, and begged for him to quit drinking. I thought that once we were married, life would be different. If we had a baby, he might choose to curb his appetite for liquid libations. When that did not work, I hoped that another baby would do the trick.

Our two little girls became my joy, but I was struck with terrible sadness and disappointment within, which I carried underneath a radiant smile and motherly duties.

The grass always seemed greener on the other side of the fence. I continuously looked at other families and longed to be more like them.

I was young and had not yet learned that everyone had skeletons in their closets. Not one single person on earth is perfect, and most people have secrets that are kept under lock and key, certain hush-hush and veiled mysteries never divulged. Only those living under the same roof can see the realities of what lies within.

Some refer to alcohol addiction as the elephant in the room, a metaphorical idiom that refers to an enormous topic or controversial issue that everyone knows about. Still, no one mentions or discusses it because it makes them feel uncomfortable. Or perhaps it is personally and socially embarrassing, far too contentious to mention.

Unlike an elephant, alcohol was more like an evil force that invaded and engulfed my husband. Its claws dug in deep to his body and soul and would not let go. It seemed impossible for him to get free. Even though he tried, he could not eliminate the sinister force that stole him from our children and me. The addictive qualities tormented him, changed him until he was no longer the man I knew.

But before all of that, we moved into a log home my father had built. We upgraded it, and my new husband put in a beautiful flower garden.

It was not until years later, when everything had ended, that I found out he did his best drinking while gardening. The proof was in the empty whiskey bottles hidden amongst the geraniums and cherry tomato vines. Like land mines and time bombs, the empty liquor bottles appeared as shrapnel, jagged and pointy like thorns on a rose. Evil and good, pain and pleasure, nestled in the flower bed I had come to love.

As a gifted and avid gardener, he took great care of the lilac tree and the yellow rose bush that my father had planted for my mother way back when they were first married. My dad had died six months after we got married, so I treasured those plants—aromatic blossoms that brought memories of my dad back to life, along with memories of his love for my mother. My husband’s watchful attendance to these flowers from my past warmed me.

I asked for red geraniums and window boxes. So he built, planted, and nurtured them and helped them grow.

How relevant all his hiding was, almost like a rite of passage. People have been doing it for years and still practice the art of camouflage to this day—places to hide their guilt, shame, and problem drinking. His was the garden. Other people find cupboards, the garage, under beds and in drawers; golf bags, gym bags, and the toilet tank. The options are endless. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.

The lengths of the alcoholic’s desperation is heart wrenching. The very thing they are hiding and trying to protect us from is what rips us all apart. But, the best protection of all is stopping and getting help. Many try, some succeed and conquer, while others become conquered.

Our beautiful garden was a decoy for my husband’s addiction.

I left pamphlets around the house about alcoholics anonymous; brochures about treatment centers and magazine articles about the devastation alcohol abuse has on a family. I made appointments with doctors and therapists. I arranged an intervention with family and friends. I prayed and prayed until there were no more prayers left in me. And worst of all, I dished out ultimatums.

When none of my attempts to make him quit drinking worked, I tried the “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em” mentality, thinking, how bad could it be? At least we would be on the same page, in the same headspace, but then I realized we could hardly afford HIS drinking let alone me jumping on the bandwagon. Besides, I did not have the stamina. Late-night drinking and hangovers were not a part of my original plan.

As a fitness instructor, I ate, drank, and breathed good health and fitness. On top of that, I was a mother, and with that came responsibilities and work to shape and mould our precious little people.

Throughout my whole life, I wanted to be a mother and a wife, which was not an easy feat, because in the 1980s, a liberated woman would never admit to this as a goal.

I eventually cracked the code to my unhappiness. It was the most challenging work I have ever done. It took years of self-discovery, healing, and grieving. In the ‘90s we called it ‘Tough Love’, whereas some referred to it as looking out for number one. The best term and action that worked for me was setting up personal boundaries.

Setting up boundaries is a valuable life skill that helps define a person by outlining safe and permissible ways for people to behave. Having boundaries also helps us respond when someone passes those limits. It is not mean or hurtful to work towards clarity and ways to control incoming and outgoing interactions between people.

How did I know it was time?

I had been invited to an afternoon get together. You know, the kind where mothers gather with other mothers. Their children play out in the yard while the moms chat and share their thoughts on work, family, politics, news, fashion, favourite recipes and tv shows. We might have a potluck lunch or dinner, a few might have a glass of wine and then coffee and dessert at the end. Everyone parts ways and drives home clean and sober.

Before arriving at the party, I decided to take the hostess a bottle of wine as a gesture.

Pulling into the parking lot at the cold beer and wine store, my eldest daughter, four years old at the time, started crying. Not just tears but sobs and outright wailing. Before I could stop the car and figure out what was wrong, she said, “No, mommy, we can’t go here; this is where daddy goes.”

My heart instantly broke.

Their father, who did handsprings in the yard, backflips on the trampoline, and played the guitar for hours, often went to this very same liquor store while leaving our girls in the car. They were small, but their feelings were big and real. They knew.

Looking into the eyes of my daughter, I had to say something. She was inconsolable. So, I made it simple, yet I validated her distress and fear. I said, “If you were to eat ten chocolate bars at a time, it would probably make you very sick. Alcohol is the same. One drink periodically would not be so bad, but what if someone had five or even ten, one after the other? It would make them very sick. If they did it every day, then their body and mind would not work very well anymore”.

She accepted this. I did not go into the liquor store that day.

My life had been highjacked by his consumption of beer, Southern Comfort, and a few joints daily. I asked myself if I could get my daughters out from under the affliction that was killing their father and sabotaging our marriage. A little voice inside my head struggled to come out, but when it did, it said, “Yes, you can.”

Leading up to the day of my chocolate bar analogy, I had been going to AL anon meetings, reading self-help books, and going for individual counselling. I also found a group of women to cycle with, or rather, they found me. I looked for spirituality in a local church and had contemplated leaving my marriage, but it was the tears and distress of my little girl that shook me to attention and gave me the strength to go.

I was thirty-two and had worked at saving my relationship and primarily the man in it, for ten years. Most of us spouses and partners have learned that it is up to the individual to get help. I eventually realized that nothing I could say or do would make him quit drinking.

After leaving, I was proud that my daughters no longer overheard our arguments, experiencing my tears and their father’s silence.

My oldest daughter is now thirty-two, the same age I was when I chose to leave, which is not the solution for everyone. I do not profess to have all the answers. Should you stay, or should you go? Will they recover, or won’t they?

Alcoholism does not look the same for everyone. Some people may drink every day, while others only drink every three months. When drinking alcohol begins to interfere with our lives and relationships, it’s most likely an addiction.

People do not get out of bed in the morning intentionally wanting to hurt others. As children, we do not dream of one day growing up and becoming an addicted person. We are born. We are held and nurtured, or maybe we are not. Our needs are met, or perhaps they are not, and even so, something happens to us along the way. The once clean slate or empty canvas of our perfect state-of-the-art human self becomes imprinted with the language of our life experiences.

So, what happened?

Some of us had parents who raised us to the best of their ability, and their parents before them did the same. But they often lived their lives based on their environment, past hurts, and patterns, and sometimes too much meaning was put into the poisonous things.

I learned that I had no control over my alcoholic, and there was no way to stop him from drinking. My safety, mental and emotional health, and that of my children became my priority. Everything had become unmanageable. The disease is progressive, and my children needed one healthy and sober parent, and that was me.

There is no clear road map or a magical crystal ball that tells us why the people we love become addicted. Or why they cannot stop. As hard as this sounds, we need to take care of ourselves. We can still love them. I still love my ex-husband, my children’s first father. But for me, I had to let him go to save us.

I have been a special needs teaching assistant for twenty-eight years, a fitness instructor for forty years, and in the last two years, I have written and published two books. Looking for Normal and Where is My Happy Ending? – A Journey of No regrets.

My journey has been one of no regrets. I permitted myself to think that way because here I am. My struggles and successes are what have made me who I am today.

“You’re everywhere except right here, and it hurts.”

-Rupi Kaur

My father died when I was twenty-seven years old. I felt grown up at the time and yet like a little girl wanting her daddy, mostly devastated from losing him and unable to think of my life without him.

He never met my husband or my three children. He was absent from my adult struggles and never saw my tears of disappointment when things did not go my way. He did not see who I grew up to be or the work that I have done, and the countless people I have helped over the years.

I have finally accepted that he will not ever be here to cheer me on and witness the dreams and goals I have yet to accomplish.

Unless he is floating up above me or his spirit is twirling around with the breeze on a windswept night, I have not seen or felt his presence in thirty-three years. I often hope that a fluttering butterfly or sunspot on a photo is a sign, a message, or an indication that he is always with me.

I wonder about heaven and the afterlife, the Promised Land, immortality, and the man upstairs. I so want there to be a land of milk and honey and seventh heaven. I fantasize seeing him again and visualize running into his arms at the Pearly Gates.

It helps me to think this way.

Remembrance Day has passed. November 11 marks the end of World War I At 11:00 a.m. on the 11^th day of the 11^th month, two minutes of silence is held to remember the people who have died in wars.

The poppy is described in the famous World War I poem “In Flanders Fields.” The red poppy is a symbol of both remembrance and hope for a peaceful future. The poppy is a well-known and well-established symbol that carries a wealth of history and meaning.

The daffodil is another flower with meaning. It is the symbol of the Canadian Cancer Society. It represents strength, resilience, courage, and life. It survives Canadian winters to become one of the first flowers to bloom in spring. My dad died of Cancer.

My father’s favourite flower was a Pansy. Kind of funny for a construction worker, farmer, man’s man, and rugged type. He liked the little face imprinted on the petals.

Now, the petite, sweet blossom reminds me of my dad and how he appreciated the little things in life—flowers that bloom, a silly joke, or the game of Charades; nature and his garden with tomato plants growing up along the back wall of our house; pickled beets and canned pears. He loved working and building, helping and creating.

My dad came from meagre, impoverished beginnings and vowed to my mother when they first met that he would never yell or show anger towards their children. My mother was in agreement.

Us kids consistently came first. As my parents struggled, we still had bicycles, toys, trips, and lessons of every kind. My mother said if there were a particular movie we all wanted to see, we would eat ground beef for a week just so we could afford to go.

Without bragging, I like to think that I am like my father. He was kind and humorous, witty and smart. But he was also a worrier.

I did not know until years after his death, when my mother told me, that my dad had internally fretted over pretty much everything; their four children (my siblings and I); money and food, not having enough; health and happiness, ours and his. And yet on the outside, he displayed nothing of these worrisome thoughts that tormented him.

He was never one to sing the blues or show how much he agonized over all of these things.

How do we keep our loved ones who have passed away current in our minds? We might reminisce over old photos and videos. As it may be, something often reminds us of them—a place, a smell, or running into an old friend. In my case, it is a flower.

I like to tell stories and reflect on memories in remembrance of the good old days, my past, and the people who have left me, and this world, far too soon.

If I close my eyes and concentrate, I can still see his smile, hear his loud, boisterous laugh, and almost feel his bear-like hugs. I understand his worry now that I am older and wiser. I carry with me many of his same worries. Perhaps we all do…

Imagine having one more day with someone who has finished their time on this earth. Not a day when they were sick in bed, but a day when they were well, a time years before they tragically or suddenly left us. What would you do? What would you say?

If I could be who I am now and was given twenty-four more hours with my dad…

I would get up early, and he would be in my kitchen making bacon and eggs. We would sit down to eat and have an instant coffee together as he stoked the fireplace. Then I would walk out to his garden with him, and he would show me around. While we were walking, I would tell him how happy I was that he was my dad. I would ask him questions like, “What’s your favourite food?” or “What did you think when you first saw me?” or “What are you worrying about today, Dad?” I would then introduce him to my three children and my husband, and we would all play Charades together. He would admire my husband for the work that he does with the homeless. He would be astounded at how my oldest daughter looks like me, how my middle daughter is an adventurous world traveller. And lastly, he would be impressed with my son’s artistic talent and how handsome he is. He would tell me that all three of my children have beautiful smiles and how happy he is that they take care of their teeth. He would then tell me how proud he is of me and how sorry that he left me.

Where is My Happy Ending? – A Journey of No Regrets, Page 278

Reflections of a Limo Ride

“It felt glamorous, but wrong, to be enjoying the luxury of black leather seats set in a U-shape formation, with a minibar lined up behind the driver. The sunroof was open, allowing a warm September breeze to ruffle my hair. At one point, my brother’s girlfriend suggested we stand up through the sunroof above us. The driver said that was completely out of the question for safety reasons. None of us wanted to do it, anyway, except her.

As we exited Lonsdale Street and turned onto the Upper Levels Highway, the route reminded me of all the times I had ridden with my father as a little girl in his work truck. My treasured childhood memory, combined with the new experience of being in a limo, brought a lightness to the event, and for a brief moment, I was absurdly happy. Catching myself, I struggled to find balance and teetered between pain and euphoria. For once, my mother’s mental health issues seemed to be making sense.

The Capilano Crematorium had standing room only. Aside from myself, a great number of people in the community had adored my dad, and it seemed like all of North Vancouver had come out to pay their respects. Not everyone could fit inside the room, and many had to wait outside until it was over. It was the end of a long warm summer, so thankfully, the doors were kept open.

I sat next to my mother, and she held my hand. I first thought she laced her fingers in mine because she was reaching out to calm me, to let me know that she was there for me, but when I felt the soft wadded-up Kleenex balled up in her palm, I realized she was holding my hand for her own sake. I did not mind, as the last time she held my hand was when I was a little girl at the grocery store.

My oldest brother had prepared music, a mixed tape of my father’s most loved songs—”The Tennessee Waltz,” sung by Patti Page, and “Put Your Sweet Lips a Little Closer to the Phone,” by Jim Reeves. We had an open microphone, so people were able to come up and share their memories, thoughts, or heartfelt feeling”.

Page 279

“Stepping outside into the glaring sunshine, several people stood around laughing at the telling of old stories or perhaps funny memories they had shared with my dad, while others timidly glanced over at me with downcast eyes, not knowing how to act, what to say or do.

I wanted everyone to be weeping, to holler out how unfair it was, to shake their fist at the sky, and to demand answers. Their laughter felt wrong and unnerving. I yearned for someone to gallantly take my father’s place, climb into the oven, and become reduced to ashes, professing that they should be taken from this world instead.

In the days and weeks afterward, grief consumed me. I felt unbelievable heartache and melancholy that I carried everywhere with me…

My writing has brought me tremendous healing.

I work hard almost daily in wonderment, battling my unanswered questions and missing my dad, even now, after all these years later.

But, if truth be told, sometimes I forget to remember.

I had a dream a few days after my dad died. In the dream, he called me on the telephone, the old-fashioned kind attached to the wall. He told me that he was happy and well and for me not to worry, that everything was going to be okay. He asked how my mother was doing.

The song He’ll Have to Go by singer-songwriter Jim Reeves reminded my dad of my mom. When they first met, they were both on blind dates with other people, so this song turned into their song.

“Put your sweet lips a little closer to the phone

Let’s pretend that we’re together, all alone

I’ll tell the man to turn the jukebox way down low

And you can tell your friend there with you he’ll have to go…”

-by Jim Reeves

My best advice is never to stop remembering and telling stories. And never feel guilty if your loved one slips your mind for a time. It is okay. Even if they never told you, I am telling you, those that have passed would want us to have a great big beautiful life.

Remembering is healing, and so is moving forward and living life to the fullest.

He’ll Have to Go by Jim Reeves