Author Archives: doradueck

“What if it’s Grandpa?”

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On Sunday, a bird crashed into a window at my son’s house. I was in the room, relaxing, as was my daughter-in-law and a granddaughter. We heard the impact, saw feather stain on the glass, jumped up to see what had happened.

“What if it’s Grandpa?” the granddaughter burst out.

This startled me, though our more immediate concern was the fate of the bird, which now lay some distance from the window. (As it turned out, sadly it was dead.)

I’ve been thinking about the girl’s remark, made in that moment when we could still simply imagine  the bird wanted, as it were, to join us. She knows how much her grandpa — my late husband Helmut — loved birds.

In Winnipeg, his favourites were robins. To him, a robin building a nest in one’s yard was a bestowed blessing. I remember how thrilled we were by the delicate blue-green eggs in their nest, and how devastated when we found the nest emptied not long after, by some predator we assumed, and the parents gone too.

Here in Tsawwassen, B.C. it was eagles he loved, for they are numerous during winter months, and also hummingbirds, which he could watch year round at a feeder on our bedroom balcony. One day, about six weeks before he died, at a point when pain had once again intensified to a new level and the pain medication dosage once again inadequate, he was weepy. He went through four or five Kleenex tissues and I was crying too. We were both weary. He told me an eagle had swooped low by the window and there had been a hummingbird at the feeder. He would like, he said, to be “between”. I didn’t ask what he meant by this because I think I knew.

In many cultures and spiritual traditions, birds have long been considered links, even messengers,  between Earth and Beyond. (Perhaps because they have wings?) At the very least, they’re symbols — the eagle of strength, for example, the hummingbird of joy. There’s a saying, “When robins appear, loved ones are near.” I’m not dogmatic about such meanings, coincidence is perfectly fine for me, and I’m content in the mystery as well as my granddaughter’s response. But, while not a birdwatcher per se, I’ve had encounters with birds that not only reminded me of Helmut but brought profound consolation which seemed intended for me. I usually keep these moments for myself, for there’s vulnerability in them, but here is one instance I documented in a grief journal of words and little stick-people drawings I kept the first months after his death, which I hope makes you happy too!

October

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October. A lovely month, often resonant of summer, and just as often, it seems, of winter. I spent half the month in Nova Scotia, visiting my daughter and her family, who have moved to the Annapolis Valley. It was my first time in the Maritimes. I experienced heat, cold, wind, rain, and beauty wherever I looked. There were many fine days too, as in almost perfect, and the fall colours were spectacular.

As per family visits I spent time with my dear people, and as per my personality, tried to make myself useful (!) by mending, digging up the garden beds, playing with the children. All of which I enjoyed.

We did a few outings — to a tall lighthouse and a short one, to small villages, and to the Frenchys thrift clothing store in Digby (apparently the original). I especially enjoyed seeing the replica of painter Maud Lewis‘s house (the actual house is in the Art Gallery of Nova Scotia) as well as her gravesite and the memorial structure where the house used to stand, which the designer called a “ghost house.” It reminded me of the bones of what’s left of things (sort of like Borrowing Bones!).

Since returning to B.C., I’ve been catching up with family and friends and reading a fair bit (attempting to read the Booker shortlist, though since I’m depending on the library I may not get there by the winner announcement Nov. 10). And, like many other Canadians, I’m following the World Series and holding my breath on behalf of the Blue Jays!

The lovely welcome of a hotel room

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A highlight this month has been a tour of Ireland. Each day of the tour I selected four photos out of many and wrote a short paragraph on Facebook, and that seems enough for now in terms of description; amateur travelogues are not actually that compelling. (Remember those long and boring slide shows we used to endure when someone from family or friends had done the requisite pilgrimage to Europe?)

Suffice it to say that Ireland is a beautiful country with a complex and fascinating history, and that my short tour will inform me in various ways going forward. I enjoyed it very much.

However, I do have the self-imposed resolution to post here at least once a month, and in fulfilment of that vow and retrospective of my trip, I’ve been thinking about hotel rooms. A tour takes one into a “new” hotel room on many a night, though there are a few times when the stay is two nights, and the need to not pack up in the morning a definite bonus.

When I enter a hotel room on a tour, I seem to promptly forget the previous room. I decided to take photos of the rooms this time, just to remember them a little. It’s not that hotel rooms in a middle-of-the-road tour differ much; they’re usually rated at a 3 or 4 (I think I’ve only stayed in a 5 star room once), and those we stayed in were more or less the same — you know, bed, bathroom, closet, coffee maker, TV. Perfectly clean, pillows generally thick and abundant, sheets and duvets white and crisp (and far too tightly secured under the mattress). Still, there was always a bit of excitement in me each afternoon or evening when we reached our hotel destination, a curiosity about the room, a glad sensation of letting myself down into its welcoming and undemanding hospitality. Here it was. For me to use. To sleep in, to retreat in, to return, if only briefly and partially, to a sense of domesticity and home-ishness in the midst of the travelling that takes one away from home to unfamiliar places.

I liked the rooms I stayed in. One was memorable for its little window nook with two chairs and windows on three sides. Another turned out to be a family room, with an additional bunk bed; I almost wished to gather some urchins off the street to have a bit of that kind of company! The Titanic Hotel had rivets on the door!

A hotel room may announce itself with its decorative flourishes but it doesn’t speak with any kind of intimate personality such as the rooms of our homes do. It doesn’t talk back, in other words, just invites us in, and without judgment lets us take our shoes off and put up our tired feet.