tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70440967319331414312024-02-20T11:25:59.068-08:00MEMORIES TO MEMOIRSMary/Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03010418858483943172noreply@blogger.comBlogger5125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7044096731933141431.post-66632008426925778812014-08-24T19:29:00.001-07:002014-08-24T19:29:38.472-07:00SWALLOWED PAIN REVISITED<h3 class="western" style="font-weight: normal;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="background: #ffff00;"><a href="http://memoriestomemoirs.blogspot.ca/2008/03/swallowed-pain-revised.html"><span style="color: #9e5205;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><b>SWALLOWED
PAIN REVISITED</b></span></span></span></a></span></span></span></span></h3>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Seeing
her tremendous girth, I understand her worth.<br />She strains to move,
to breathe, to live. I share her truth.<br />Her deeply sorrowful eyes
unveil her thousand-mile stare,<br />screaming those torturous
thoughts—I've know far too well.<br />I care, but do not dare to
share my pain, my heart, my truth:<br />It's definitely not food, but
PAIN that she has swallowed.<br /><br />Yet in vain, she dreams of whom
she was inside that<br />fortress she alone created, merely to exclude
those<br />too familiar, agonizing and tormenting lies of love.<br />Why
should it be that love for her, being sown with lies,<br />could
harvest only pain? Her lonely thoughts implore:<br />"......why
me? Help Me! SAVE Me! LOVE ME!"<br /><br />Her silent, unrequited
prayers are deafening---<br />at least to me—because I know her one
true pain.<br />Believing surely that of truth and love, she's
most<br />certainly unworthy. Her pleas, unfettered, battle
those<br />darkened clouds enshrouding her despairing heart.<br />.....A
silent answer sifts—her burdened spirit lifts!<br /><br />Through
unconditional, intrepid love of self, immediately<br />recognized,
embraced and understood, at once she is<br />empowered by new
envisioning and true enlightening!<br />Past incredulities suspended,
she now embraces her<br />life's astounding rebirth—by terminating
swallowed pain.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<div align="left">
<br /><br />
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><!-- Start Bravenet Traffic Exchange Code -->
<script language="javascript" type="text/javascript" src="http://exchange.bravenet.com/exit.php?id=3306277838">
</script>
<!-- End Bravenet Traffic Exchange Code --></div>Mary/Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03010418858483943172noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7044096731933141431.post-38081894842102745152008-01-22T00:25:00.000-08:002014-08-24T20:56:28.969-07:00LITTLE BARE KNEES "BERNEICE"<div style="margin-bottom: 0.64cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="color: black;">I
don’t believe in "coincidence". I do, however, firmly
subscribe to the philosophy that there is a sublime reason for each
and every thing that happens in </span><span style="color: black;">human
beings'</span><span style="color: black;">
lives, regardless </span><span style="color: black;">of
whether it is </span><span style="color: black;">a
huge event, or a seemingly miniscule </span><span style="color: black;">and</span><span style="color: black;">
fleeting moment. This was never more evident to me than when I
recently tripped across an old memory—my </span><span style="color: black;">personal
</span><span style="color: black;">memory
of “Little Bare Knees Berneice".<br /><br />It was a barely
significant incident in my childhood. From kindergarten in 1955, to
the sixth grade, I attended Rolph Road Public School in Leaside, (a
town originally amalgamated into the Borough of East York, then later
into the City of Toronto). After about the second grade, and during
all of those years to follow, when I walked unaccompanied,* to and
from my school, I was safely escorted across the main intersection at
the corner of my street by the elderly, gray-haired crossing-guard,
Mr. Shamus MacNeely.<br /><br />My best estimate would put old Mr.
MacNeely around 1</span><span style="color: black;">57</span><span style="color: black;">
years of age—at that time! His was a diminutive stature which was
even further shortened by the distinctly forward bend his spine. His
gait manifested a rhythmical limp definitely favouring his right leg.
I think this was probably, at some time or another, the result of </span><span style="color: black;">him</span><span style="color: black;">
either being honourably woundedin the service of his country, or
perhaps less than honourably maimed in just another pubbrawl gone
somewhat awry!<br /><br />MacNeely’s fearsome scowl was only
exacerbated by the ruddiness of his complexion and his </span><span style="color: black;">pockmarked
blue, </span><span style="color: black;">or
</span><span style="color: black;">actually
more like purple, vein-riddled, bulbous protuberance, </span><span style="color: black;">which
</span><span style="color: black;">was
</span><span style="color: black;">only
</span><span style="color: black;">barely
recognizable as his nose! I suppose it could be said he looked a
little bit like </span><span style="color: black;">Santa
</span><span style="color: black;">Claus,
only unlike Santa’s trade-mark white, fluffy and cottony beard, the
old man’s </span><span style="color: black;">facial
hair </span><span style="color: black;">was
thick, smoky, grimy and grey-tinged with yellow. There was a definite
connection between his facial hair and his brushy side-burns which
grew all the way down, incorporating the unruly over-growth of his
down-turned eye-brows into a marriage with his side-burns. All in
all, the grey and yellow fuzz did a fairly complete job of entirely
faming his face!<br />Unfortunately, those wild and wooly eye-brows
gave old Shamus a particularly angry visage--probably one reason I
was not alone in being terrified of him, at least at first!<br /><br />This
caricature from an ‘old-sailor’s head shaving mug’ sported
fingers which were like thick, shapeless, hairy white sausages,
dreadfully scarred and stuck awkwardly onto the end of his huge, fat
hands; and those were almost indistinguishable at the end of his
unusually short, plump arms!<br /><br />The old man seemed to undertake
his responsibilities with a level of seriousness one would not
normally associate with that particular career choice. He’d use his
"STOP" sign in the same manner a person might communicate
in sign language with someone who is deaf. He’d wave us little kids
to “come on”, or to “stop” abruptly, or even pat us on our
collective bums and hurry us a little faster across the street! And
he’d wield it in the air, maniacally chasing any offending drivers
who dared to disobey and tried to scoot through his intersection
after he had firmly waved his authoritative sign demanding them to
halt!<br /><br />The old man spoke in a very loud, gruff, rumbling voice,
heavy and husky from years of slowly inhaling the signature pipe
which always hung lazily thus forging a path through the yellow-gray
bristles around his virtually indistinguishable little mouth. When he
spoke, the bristles moved up and down, but his lips stayed virtually
shut, so you rarely saw his old, sparse, yellowed, broken teeth.
Perhaps his voice was affected by the years of imbibing the
"medicine" he kept in a little, faded, brown
leather-covered flask, (something, I<br />noticed, he’d predictably
stash with a quickness whenever another adult came by).Actually as I
think back, I remember now, though not understanding then, that he
smelled of the cheap whiskey he would both, consume internally, and
dribble externally following hurried swigs.<br /><br />The whiskey was
also most likely the reason he was so adept at creating those little
names and rhymes and songs which he jovially delivered off-key or
occasionally whistled! He was obviously, entertaining himself first
and if anyone else enjoyed his little performances, so much the
better!<br /><br />Sometimes I had a hard time understanding old
MacNeely’s thick accent with its "R-R-R-rolling" Scottish
brogue, which he most obviously delighted in not only keeping intact,
but also actually cultivating despite the decades of his residing in
Canada! Of course he was harmless enough, and after awhile I looked
forward to daily his antics. Also, it was very reassuring when he
made it his personal mission to first learn the given names, and then
invent his own individualized nick-names, for all the children on his
watch, including, of course, yours truly!<br /><br />Living in the snow
belt of Ontario, I remember year after year suffering through very
long, excruciatingly cold, snowy, icy winters. So cold, in fact, the
atmosphere stole your breath when you first ventured out of doors!
Despite these foreseeable, annual conditions, I never understood why
the girl’s school grade school uniform, forced upon us, remained
unchallenged as only a navy-blue cotton, wide-pleated tunic and a
crisply pressed white blouse (the only concession for winter being a
change to wearing long-sleeved shirts). Of course, instead of wearing
sensibly warm tights or leggings we had to wear obligatory matching
navy-blue, or white, knee-socks! Yes, that was socks--just to our
knees!</span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, serif;">Of
course, in order to ensure we wouldn't wear our tunics too short,
risking undue </span></span><span style="color: black;">exposure,
our Principal made all of the girls in the school regularly line up
class by class and kneel side-by-side across the very front edge of
the gymnasium stage while he actually walked along below in the
orchestra pit using a ruler to ensure the four inch distance from the
tunic hems to each girl's knees! If the tunic measured too short,
or<br />too long, the offender was sent home straightaway with a note
to the parents to re-hem the tunic and to were expected to amend the
situation by the next school day!<br /><br />The first year I met Mr.
MacNeely, as soon as the weather turned cold, he would repeatedly
express his concern that my little knees were bare, and he’d ask me
every day: "Aren't your little bare knees cold?". After
awhile when he saw me coming he’d sing: "Here comes the little
girl with the cold bare knees!" After awhile I wasn’t afraid
anymore, in fact, I was amused. When he laughed at himself, I was
treated to<br />the visage of his wide, yellowed,
long-and-gapped-toothed grin and a funny song mixing up pieces of
little sayings with children’s rhymes. But mostly the old codger
made me laugh when he started to call me "Little Bare
Knees".<br /><br />Eventually his accent mixed with the cold air,
and maybe just a little of the "spirits", made his words
seem to slur from "bare knees" to "barenees", to
"berenees", to "berneece", and then "Berneice!"
Finally he seemed to settle on that as my new nickname, and one that
stuck with me for all my school years at Rolph Road. As far as old
Mr. MacNeely was concerned, my actual given name was in fact,
"Berneice"!<br /><br />An unusual name, Berneice, and it wasn’t
really very common at all in the fifty’s or sixty’s, unlike Mary
or Susie or even Cathy. It was a name that held absolutely no
significance for me until April 26, 2001--more than four decades
later! That was the day I was finally discovered and contacted by the
brother I never even knew existed, </span><span style="color: black;">Richard
Ketteringham</span><span style="color: black;">.
</span><span style="color: black;">Richard</span><span style="color: black;">
had promised our mother, whom I never did meet, on her death-bed,
that he would never stop searching for me and here it was some 28
years into his search when his promise was fulfilled!<br /><br />It was
on that day I first found out that I was literally ripped from my
mother’s arms in 1950 when I was only six weeks of age. I knew
then, for the first time, that my birth mother had not only loved me
dearly, but also had wanted me very much and would have never given
me up willingly. This was exactly the opposite of what my abusive,
adoptive had mother drilled into my brain throughout my entire life!
After I<br />was pried from her grasp, my birth mother anguished and
suffered her entire life, daily searching for mine, in the myriad sea
of strange faces in the passing parade of downtown Toronto’s
throngs.<br /><br />And the connection between us?<br /><br />My birth
mother’s name was Berneice!!<br /><br />How unbelievably prophetic was
old Mr. MacNeely’s nickname for me! Sometimes I have to wonder,
what my real mother, Berneice, would have thought about her lost
little "Bare Knees Berneice"!<br /><br />See what I mean? No
coincidences!<br /><br />*(this occurred back in the day when children
were safe and didn’t have to be driven or hand-held to go anywhere
in such a safe, small-town atmosphere in Leaside, a </span><span style="color: black;">middle-to-upper
class suburb in Toronto, Ontario, Canada.)</span><span style="color: black;"><br /></span></span></span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><!-- Start Bravenet Traffic Exchange Code -->
<script language="javascript" type="text/javascript" src="http://exchange.bravenet.com/exit.php?id=3306277838">
</script>
<!-- End Bravenet Traffic Exchange Code --></div>Mary/Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03010418858483943172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7044096731933141431.post-76802924234642651802008-01-22T00:03:00.000-08:002008-01-22T00:13:35.757-08:00SWALLOWED PAINI look at her tremendous girth<br />I know the truth.<br /><br />She strains to move, to breathe, to live.<br />I know the truth.<br /><br />Her deep, sad eyes are screaming!<br />I catch her thousand mile stare<br />and know what she is thinking.<br /><br />I care, but do not dare to share<br />what were, but are no longer there:<br />My pain, my truth.<br /><br />It is not food--but PAIN<br />that she has swallowed,<br />yet in vain.<br /><br />She dreams of whom she was<br />inside this fortress she alone has built<br />to keep love out.<br /><br />The love she knew bore lies and pain.<br />How could it be if truth is love<br />that any love is pain?<br /><br />"Why me?" "Help me!" "Save me!"<br />Her silent prayers are deafening.<br />"Of truth and love, I know I am unworthy."<br /><br />Her pleas, unfettered reach the heavens.<br />Through cloud and rain a silent answer sifts.<br />Her burdened spirit lifts.<br /><br />LOVE, unconditional, fearless, free<br />at once embraced and understood.<br />Her vision, an enlightenment for TRUTH.<br /><br />Empowered now by her own TRUTH.<br />Confronting the old lies of love,<br />Her life begins by ending swallowed pain.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><!-- Start Bravenet Traffic Exchange Code -->
<script language="javascript" type="text/javascript" src="http://exchange.bravenet.com/exit.php?id=3306277838">
</script>
<!-- End Bravenet Traffic Exchange Code --></div>Mary/Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03010418858483943172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7044096731933141431.post-28754989570755874442008-01-21T23:36:00.000-08:002014-08-25T19:03:38.988-07:00AUTUMN DANCERS<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">The
leaves outside my morning window<br />in pairs, they swiftly
swing,<br />dancing to the melodies of time.<br /><br />I watch them twirl
and sway,<br />chosen partners with the breeze'<br />Their dance is a
waltz of freedom.<br /><br />Swirling and lifting, flying to Heaven.<br />I
watch in stillness lest I disturb<br />the silent harmonies of the
wind.<br /><br />Only an invisible spectator peering<br />from my lofty
theatre seat and listening,<br />I strain to hear the rhythms that they
follow.<br /><br />These private melodies of the wind<br />will pipe their
timeless tunes for these<br />dancers caught in autumn's tight
embrace.<br /><br />The circle of their lush green lives<br />completes
itself, now draped in all<br />the vibrant rainbows of their
death.<br /><br />This is their one and only waltz,<br />the last dance
they will share,<br />for only in death can they dance.<br /><br />Only in
death do they fly.<br />Only in death are they free.<br />Only in death
will they live.</span></span></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><!-- Start Bravenet Traffic Exchange Code -->
<script language="javascript" type="text/javascript" src="http://exchange.bravenet.com/exit.php?id=3306277838">
</script>
<!-- End Bravenet Traffic Exchange Code --></div>Mary/Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03010418858483943172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7044096731933141431.post-71422791008034831182008-01-21T23:18:00.000-08:002014-08-24T21:04:05.731-07:00MOONFLAKE SERENADES<div style="margin-bottom: 0.64cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">I
think one of my sweetest memories of my daddy was when he took me out
for snowy night-time sleigh rides—just the two of us!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="color: black;">He
bundled me up like a little papoose, tucked a hot-water bottle by my
feet and covered me with a cozy, soft blanket! As we sailed along, he
told me stories of the 'olden' days when he was a little boy. His
daddy would pull </span><span style="color: black;"><i>him</i></span><span style="color: black;">
in a sleigh through the night snow, all the while keeping him, as he
expressed it, "snug as a bug in a rug"; but instead of a
hot-water bottle, it was a towel-wrapped brick </span><span style="color: black;">which</span><span style="color: black;">
had been lovingly heated in </span><span style="color: black;">their</span><span style="color: black;">
</span><span style="color: black;">fireplace!</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Although
daddy sang to me all the time, those special sleigh-ride serenades
became forever beautifully etched in my heart. Even now when I am
very still and quiet and I close my eyes tightly, I can feel his
wonderful winter serenades cocooning my soul. I remember "Oh My
Papa", "My Darling Clementine" and "A Bicycle
Built for Two". Even more glorious than the hymns he sang, were
his Christmastime renditions of all my favourite carols! But the most
fun we shared was when he invented new songs, about “us” and
“fun” and “love” and “happiness” and “forever”...as
we carved our memories along the snow-packed trails.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">In
between songs, our world was so silent and still: no cars, no people,
just the "crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch" of daddy's big,
black rubber boots, unlatched and flapping as they rhythmically
pressed their patterns in the new snow. So bundled up I couldn't
move, I’d just lean way back in my sleigh and try to dangle my arms
over the sides. With daddy as My Protector, I was fearless, even when
the passing snow 'monsters', flanking each drive-way, reached out to
grab my wooly, double-mittened hands.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">The
tree limbs bowed so painfully under their crisply sparkling white
armour, that every now and then a loud crack announced their
inevitable capitulation. While picture windows poured their golden
yellow warmth into the night air, monstrous icicle daggers, filled
with glinting starlight, warned of danger for any who ventured too
near. Under our black-navy-blue velvet sky, spackled with the magic
dancing glint of faraway worlds, I watched in amazement as moon-rays
joined partners in a silent waltz, in step with my daddy's boots.
While illuminating our path, in tandem step, they mirrored our every
turn.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Soft
snowflakes settled on my nose and cheeks, lengthened my eyelashes and
danced an icy fandango on my tongue.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><i>"Where
do the all these snowflakes come from daddy?" </i></span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">After
a deeply pensive moment came my daddy’s own, very special reply:</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><i>"These
are our special snowflakes, Bunny and they come from the moon—they
float all the way down from the moon."</i></span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Why
of course they do and they are too! Certainly he was right! I should
have known that these weren't ordinary snowflakes! Daddy said, and my
daddy never lied:</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><i>"Bunny
dear, these are our own very special, mystical, Magical Moonflakes!"</i></span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Although
I always hoped those enchanted wintry sails through the Moonflakes
would go on <i>forever</i> into the infinite night, our journeys
always ended at our front door where "her" terrifyingly
secretive, depraved and venomous anger halted the serenades. With a
hate-filled glare, she instantly melted, (correction, <i>vaporized</i>),
our delightfully fleeting moments, vanishing them just like the
breath from the depth of our souls...into the endlessly dark and
crackling night air.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">With
the greatest anticipation, and a secret little prayer of hope, I
always begged:</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><i>"Daddy...will
there be Magical Moonflakes for </i><i>us</i><i> tomorrow night?"</i></span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">...and
he always assured me with just the tiniest promise:</span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><i>"We’ll
see, Bunny, we’ll see..."</i></span></span></span></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><!-- Start Bravenet Traffic Exchange Code -->
<script language="javascript" type="text/javascript" src="http://exchange.bravenet.com/exit.php?id=3306277838">
</script>
<!-- End Bravenet Traffic Exchange Code --></div>Mary/Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03010418858483943172noreply@blogger.com0