Anniversary

Alan and I have been married thirty-five years this week. Being married to Alan is as natural, and essential, to me as breathing. We will likely go out to dinner and vie for supremacy in the ongoing really soppy or really tasteless greeting card contest waged over many years. We do not always exchange anniversary gifts. It depends upon whether one of us has a great idea. Alan is most definitely better at finding those truly unique and thoughtful gifts.

About ten years ago though I had a wonderful plan. My husband loves music, all sorts of music. His tastes are eclectic and his knowledge vast. He particularly loves a good guitarist. He mentioned in passing that Colin James would be playing in Montreal that year. I secretly schemed to get tickets for him. I went online to buy the tickets. This was the first time I had ever purchased anything online. I went to events in Montreal, clicked on Colin James, clicked on the date, got a whole page of events, saw the title “Millencolin” and clicked “buy”. I figured, given that it was the first year of the new millennium, that was the name of Colin James’ concert tour. Remember please those who are rolling their eyes, in my defence, I thought I was still on Colin James’ website.

The tickets in hand, we headed to the Metropolis on concert night, leaving our second daughter babysitting our youngest. We know this great Montreal concert venue, so we arrived very early and went up to the balcony. Our seats were terrific. Below us on stage the drum had a skull and crossbones on it. We wondered who could be opening for Colin James? Perhaps he was trying to appeal to a younger crowd? As the place started to fill up, I realized that no one around us seemed to be much over sixteen. Lots of black shirts, spiked hair, piercings and safety pins. The kids looked a lot like one of our daughters. We thought Colin James appealed to a much broader age group. Perhaps the older fans were downstairs? Now the place was packed. Fog carpeted the stage as the dry ice was set free. A skinny kid bounced onto the stage and shouted “Are you ready Montreal!” The crowd roared, the opening band raced to their places, and started. It was the worst, loudest, heavy metal, make- your- ears- bleed , music I had ever heard. The kids were on their feet. The area in front of the stage was a seething pit of kids jumping in the air waving their fists. Muscular men in t-shirts marked “security” were circulating trying to keep kids from hanging dangerously over the balcony. My husband, lover of all music that he is, was stoically trying to wait it out. I began to think something was terribly wrong. I said, “Just stay here a minute, I am going to check something out.” I pushed my way downstairs.

Kids were still streaming through the front doors. Management had made a narrow passage between the ticket booth and a large security guard so they could ensure everyone had a ticket. I went up to the security guard and gently tapped him on the shoulder. I said, “Excuse me. I hate to bother you, but this isn’t Colin James, is it?” To my eternal gratitude, the young man did not laugh out loud. He composed his face and replied, “Uh no, this is Millencolin a Swedish heavy metal punk band.” I blushed and stammered and tried to explain that I had made a mistake. They must have felt sorry for me. The security guard offered to go upstairs to get Alan. The ticket- taker leaned over and said helpfully, “Don’t worry. We wondered when you arrived, but then we thought you must be the band’s parents!” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Soon Alan came downstairs; the security guard seemed to have no trouble finding him in the crowd. We thanked the staff, and still blushing I headed for the door. But there was to be no fast escape from my humiliation that night. The Metropolis staff stopped us, and with great courtesy, gave us our money back.

On the way back to the car, I apologized profusely to my husband for the disappointment and the failed gift. My highly amused husband replied, “Are you kidding? This was the best gift ever! You NEVER screw up. I ALWAYS screw up. I am going to get mileage out of this for years!” His grin stretched ear to ear. I said testily, “Oh, well, that’s alright then. But you don’t have to be so damned pleased with yourself!” He chuckled all the way home.

Our daughter was very surprised to see us so early. She asked us what happened. Alan replied, “Ask your mother.” Throwing him a dirty look, I said defensively, “It wasn’t Colin James. How was I supposed to know Millencolin was a group? It COULD have been the name of Colin James’ concert tour!” My daughter dissolved into helpless laughter. Snorting hoots of, “Mom, you are sooooo lame!” followed me all the way upstairs as I withdrew, trying to preserve some of my much tattered dignity. My husband and daughter howled with laughter as he recounted, for the first time, the entire story.

The story is now a treasured part of family history and has been told to many an appreciative audience. I don’t mind. These stories, where everyone in turn gets to play a starring role, are part of the glue holding marriage and family together, the more embarrassing, the better. It turned out to be the perfect gift.

The next summer, Colin James came to the jazz festival. I managed to get the right tickets this time.

Happy Anniversary love.

Mam

I have been thinking about role models lately. My almost 18 year old is a camp counselor this summer. Her little 7 to 9 year old charges absolutely adore her. I hear her say things in a confident self-evident way such as, “You know if you give one a strawberry, they all need exactly the same thing, or such drama!” I lightly said, “So, do you feel sympathy for me yet?” She looked at me wryly and said, “Not yet.” But she knew what I meant. She has two older sisters, and is well acquainted with the sibling lament, “It’s not fair!”

It is so interesting to watch your own children reflect the world as they understand it, and have the heady experience of influencing others. You realize their role models are many and diverse. Like most women of my generation, I wanted my girls to be exposed to what I saw as strong women role models. In my mother’s generation, many women did not work outside of the home. They did not have much education, and rarely “careers”. My generation rejected these traditional roles so vehemently, revolution did indeed result. In our estimation, these women could not be role models for our daughters. But in our march towards change, I think we missed something important.

I spoke to my mother- in- law in Wales today. We call her Mam. She stands barely five foot tall and seems unchanged in the thirty- five plus years I have known her. She turns eighty nine soon, though you would not believe it. She comes from a generation and a time that seems so old fashioned that I imagine scenes from a Henry James novel.

When she was two, her mother died from septicemia. She had scraped her arm on a rusty nail in the outhouse at the bottom of the garden. In those days before penicillin, she became ill and died quickly. My mother- in- law remembers very little about her. She recalls the sound, starched smell and whiteness of her floor length apron, worn over her every day dresses, as she did her daily chores. The tickle of those skirts on Mam's toddler cheek as she played on the landing is a single abiding memory. She and her three older brothers were left in the care of their dock- worker father. He did his best, but was ill-prepared to take on the housekeeping and mothering role at a time when household responsibilities and provider roles were strictly assigned. After a few years of unsatisfactory housekeepers, the family decided to do without that support, and Mam started to take on the role her family situation had decided for her. At six she was standing on a chair mixing vegetables into the night's supper stew before she went to school. They all helped, but she was the girl, so she would look after the house and the boys, of course.

This destiny may have been set, and Mam did her duty, but there was nothing weak and docile about it. Mam remembers with great indignation how the schoolmaster used to dismiss her from the discussion about jobs the students might have. He would say, "Not Jean of course, as she'll be needed at home!" She would stamp her foot in defiance. And the time she totally over rode her practical and thrifty father when he went to buy her sensible laced boots. She would have those desired patent leather shoes, just this once. There was a brief respite from housework when women were recruited to the war effort, but she was soon married, her first son on his way. She cared for her father for the rest of his life, while bringing up four sons, with her husband, in her mother's small house. She lives there still.
When I first met Mam, this quiet spoken, little Welsh woman who seemed to be constantly in motion, serving the many men in her life, I was ready to be outraged. After all, I was Canadian. I had grown up with two sisters. I was part of the women’s liberation generation. I tensed every time Mam popped up from her dinner to run and get something for one of the boys. I glared if my husband watched sport with his father and brothers as Mam and I did the dishes.

But slowly I learned to understand the complex story I was witnessing. Mam was the main character. The family revolved around her. There was respect, humour and great love. It was never discussed, it was just understood. Mam loved her husband for sixty years. She brought up four good men. She did what needed to be done, with no regrets, quiet grace and great strength. The example is not in the roles filled, but how the life is lived.

Recently she was debating the merits of having knee replacement surgery; her arthritis of the knee has slowed her down. She told us, "They only last ten years, and you cannot kneel you know. " We asked her why she needed to kneel. She retorted, "Well how will I wash the kitchen floor then?" A modern woman’s role model? Absolutely.