mom

The residents of the very-assisted wing of the assisted living home gather in the living room to wait for dinner. Their walkers and some wheelchairs fill any empty spaces. Some have come on their own, starting almost an hour ago; others are brought by the attendants. The lone man came first, and sits sleeping in his chair in the middle of them all.

Tho’ it took but 48 hours
I had not time to spare
And so I gave it 36
And hoped to win the dare.

The brisket tried its very best
To seem like corned beef
But lacking time
Within the brine
It turned out merely beef.

--Charlene Hurt, 24 July 2008

[retrospective #4 in a series on Charlene's writings]

The young woman walking alone down the dark street just before the start of the New Year paused often, her head turned toward the brightly lit house from which happy voices could be heard. As the midnight hour got closer her pace slowed almost to a halt, as she listened to the sounds of celebration from the houses around. Then, she began to hurry, trying to make her Kleenex last until she got home.

Seeing your neighbor approaching on his regular walk
You prepare your greeting

The approach, greeting, response, and good-bye
All without either breaking stride
Requires careful thought
To avoid the banal or repetitious

     When I was a young girl my parents spent many weekends at the “club house,” which consisted of two houses on stilts along the Gasgonade River. The men fished, running trot lines four times a day, and the women cared for the children and cleaned and cooked and read Mickey Spillane mysteries. These houses are owned by my two uncles, and these weekends are filled with easy camaraderie and a lot of teasing. After supper and before running the last trot line they play cards and drink beer, laughing and often accusing each other of cheating, while the kids “sleeping” on the porch listen.

A letter to Family and Friends

Charlene (Char) passed in her sleep 31 January 2025

You will be gladly-sadly missed.

I've written a lot previously about my time with my Mother...

sigh

Now, it seems that I get another chance, bittersweet as this may be.

You cry; I smile:
Take these nutrients, Mother,
To another place.

With Mom last night, at Café Lily for dinner, and we enjoyed such a lovely time.

The meatballs were delightful.

Betty is the most delightful host/owner.

What a difference, makes a week.

From its beginning, these perspectives, at the end.

Waking to the first, never did I imagine that my mother would become my baby, and that my baby would become my mother.

This tricycle is a digital re-print of the two-colour ink-print my father James made as an announcement of my birth--crafted by his blessed, gifted hand(s)--and shared with Friends and Family at that time.

James and Charlene hand-picked me (Me!), and adopted me into--as a partner of--their Family in early May, 1968, two weeks (plus some change) after my physical birth.

I hold one of three (or so) copies of that original, and I have cared for it as I would my own hand.

I treat this avatar--my FB 'profile picture' as such, and am proud to hold it as mine.

My Father taught me everything I have come to understand as Art; through his creativity; through /his/ works; through his Love.

It is my honour to have the skill--one of these many gifts, imparted--to re-create this work of art, in this medium, and to display this as part of my Me.

I am so, so proud to be able to do so.

I am so, so gratified to have this understanding.

I am so, so happy to be a part of my Family.

Thank you Mom.

Thank you Dad.