WHERE OH WHERE IS THE BAG BOY??

Standing in line at the big Super Store, my groceries being conveyed through the unseeing eye of the cashier who has little to do other than scan the various food stuffs, and trying, unsuccessfully, to bag my groceries myself before they become piled up so high they fall off the conveyor belt.....well, you get the picture. Grocery shopping ain't what it used to be. Long line ups, grocery carts piled sky high as shoppers try to fill their cupboards and freezers to last into the next decade. Whoa. Back up just a minute. How did that happen? How did the cozy little A & P Grocery Store morph itself into this giant monstrosity of a store that sells everything from antacids to zippers and all the food stuffs in between? Where is the smiling friendly face of the cashier who actually picked up your grocery items, one by one, looked for the little white sticker that showed the price and punched it, manually, into her cash register?

Even more demanding of an answer...where is the bag boy? You know. The little high school kid who stood next to the cashier and asked if you wanted plastic or paper. Nope. Retract that. Let's go back before that when there was no question. It WAS paper. Those lovely big paper bags that held so many groceries you wouldn't get today's young shopper to even comprehend it; made of finest Kraft paper and those serrated edges on the top. Clean, fresh, thick and without the possibility of anything falling through the bottom and breaking on the way home. Substantial enough they sat upright in the trunk of your car and when you got home every ear of corn, every can of Campbells Soup and every last jar of instant coffee was right where that bag boy had put it - in the bag. It wasn't strewn all over your trunk, it wasn't spilling and rolling around your back seat, it was where it should be. In the bag.

That boy, so polite, his oh so short hair cut and button down collar symbolizing his goodness, calling you ma'am even though you were barely five years older than he, packing your groceries just so in that solid paper bag, smiling at you the entire while. He never asked you to pay for those bags, he didn't make you guess how many bags you would require to make sure you paid for them up front. The cashier didn't try to frazzle him by shooting the groceries past him so quickly he was all fumble fingered and squashed your butter. It was a smooth operation, cashier handing one item at a time to the bag boy, both of them looking AT you while you stood there doing nothing, and the bag boy placing each item carefully and upright in that paper bag.



It didn't stop there either. Oh no. That boy then carried your groceries to your car - yes, that's right - carried your groceries to your car. He politely inquired whether you wanted them in the trunk or in the back seat and placed them ever so carefully exactly where you wished. As he quietly refused your .10 cent tip, quoting the store policy, he rushed back into the store, his dazzling smile ready to beam upon the next lucky shopper. Oh my, how I miss that boy.

ODE TO MY GRANDDAUGHTER

      They say time is fleeting, passing in the wink of an eye. One moment you are playing hop scotch with your grade two friends. The next moment you are going home from the hospital, your brand new baby in tow, gazing at this amazing little creature who has been given into your care. Another twinkling of an eye - your little boy is all grown up and there, before you, is his own bundle of joy. A squirming little baby with spiky yellow hair and a big toothless grin – your grandchild – and you fall instantly, head over heels, in love with her.

      Each time you see her she becomes more endearing, more engaging, more lovable, funnier, smarter and just all around more wonderful. The memories of times spent with my granddaughter have lately come flooding back to me.

      She's seven. We are playing miniature golf when I discover she has a sense of humour. In fact, she is quite comical and makes me laugh. At seven? Walking beside her, she looks up at me, the innocence of childhood on her face, and she slips her hand into mine. We walk along like that for blocks. My heart melts.

She sits on my lawn gathering up some snails, painstakingly naming each of them. She decides who is the aunt, the mother, the brother, where they are going and where they have been. The next day she searches for her family of snails only to discover they have moved on.

      She is nine. She has fallen asleep on the floor while we are watching a kids movie she has chosen. Unable to awaken her with gentle nudges, I try to lift her dead weight from the floor, nudging some more, still trying not to startle her but she is dead to the world. Eventually I need to shake the goodness out of her to get a response and she stirs. With her eyes still closed, we walk to her bedroom where I watch her fall back asleep, comfy in bed, her face a picture of contentment.

      Ordering drinks to go at Starbucks; a sticky, cold concoction covered in whipped cream for her and a frothy cappuccino for me. She wants to carry the drinks to the car. In order to open the door, she places the drinks on the roof before either one of us remembers the sun roof is open. We watch in horror as the frothy, sticky cold concoction, and the hot cappuccino, splatter all over the inside of the car. Her face registers first shock when she realizes what's happened until she glances at me and sees I can barely hold back the laughter. Together, through fits of giggles, we clean up the sticky mess that is oozing into each little crevice of the leather upholstery

      We spend glorious afternoons at The Children's Discovery Museum, a wonderful hands-on, interactive museum that teaches children through play. We play spy. I am the leader and she the spy who has to go from phone to phone and listen to my instructions. At the first phone she is to go to the super market area and purchase a box of corn flakes. At the next phone she is to dress up in a medieval costume, but switch the hats. We do this for hours, me barking orders and she obeying; she takes it very seriously. At one point in our play, she looks up at me and says, “Grandma, you're so much fun.” Again, that melting heart.

      One day I see the little tomboy who refuses to wear anything other than sport team jerseys and jeans suddenly choose a new dress to wear for her first day of school.

      Two summers ago she visited with us for most of her high school vacation and was put to work around the house to earn her pocket money. She washed windows, mowed the lawn, dusted and polished furniture, made her bed each day and painted a shed. In the evenings we played cards or a board game and laughed ourselves silly. While riding our bikes together, just her and me, we talked. Long conversations about life, love, drugs, sex, dating, there were no off-limit subjects. What a wonderful gift to have grown into that kind of relationship with her. “Grandma, I really like talking to you. I don't know why but I feel like I can say anything to you.”

      She's 17, in grade 12 and about to embark on one of the most exciting times of her life. This November she has asked me to accompany her to an Open House at a university she would like to attend next year. And, she wants me to come along and share in part of this with her. Just us two. A girl's week-end away, grandmother and granddaughter. Am I pleased? You bet!

Family Sit-Coms, Then and Now

     With the bizarre exit of Charlie Sheen from its cast, the television show, Two and a Half Men, has been in the news a lot lately. The show revolves around the antics of a wealthy bachelor whose life is filled with precarious relationships that rarely last more than two nights. His glaringly staid brother, who is going through a divorce, comes to live with him. The brother's obnoxious son visits on week-ends as stipulated by his overbearing and demanding ex-wife. Meanwhile, at the house now shared by the brothers, scantily clad and extremely dumb young girls romp. The staid soon to be divorced brother can only simultaneously gaze in horror at the lifestyle his brother lives and wistfully covet it.

      It got me thinking about sit-coms, in particular family oriented sit-coms and how they've changed. Back when I was a kid a television family was always a husband and wife, two or more children and a dog who wandered in and out of the house. Dad went off to a never quite specified job wearing a suit and tie, returned later, removed his suit jacket and donned a cardigan. He would then sit in his chair and read the paper. The camera would then cut to Mom who is in the kitchen (a very clean and unused kitchen I might add) cutting a cucumber. She is wearing a dress, pearls and high heels. The kids are in their tidy rooms. The fun begins. Leaving her kitchen to join Dad in the living room Mom sits on the arm of Dad's chair and relays, much to the delight of the audience if the laugh track is any gauge, what Kathy, or the Beaver, or Dennis, or any of the other sit-com kids has done. Using modest amounts of female trickery she gets Dad to understand the kids weren't really trying to be bad, they just made an error in judgement. Dad sets aside the paper, makes sure his tie is straight and calls the kids downstairs. Sitting them down he solemnly, and in a wonderfully worded non-lecture, lets them know the error of their ways. When finished he tousles their heads one by one.

      One child, speaking for them all, apologizes. “Gee willikers, Dad. Golly, we sure didn't mean to upset Mr. Wilson. Gosh, I see now how wrong it was. Thanks, Dad.” Lesson learned, they all smile and wander into the dining room to eat the elaborate dinner that was prepared from one cucumber.

      A far cry from the kid on Two and a Half Men drinking under age, vomiting into a toilet while Uncle Charlie sits on the side of the tub, drink in hand, smoking a cigar. There is no carefully worded caution, there is no subdued apology from the kid with promises to never do it again. It ends with Uncle Charlie, the kid's Dad and the kid sitting on Charlie's deck, observing the Pacific Ocean. No lesson learned.

      Is this perhaps a little more realistic than the sit-coms of old? Or are they both far-fetched and over the top caricatures depicting the times? Did any of us actually know a family like the Andersons, the Cleavers or the Stone family of The Donna Reed Show.

Who of us danced down the stairs in our ballet slippers and full skirts to announce to the living room in general we had a date. Did any one have a smart alecky friend like Eddie Haskell? “Good evening Mrs. Cleaver. That's a fine dress you're wearing today.” 
      I for one not only wanted to meet the Andersons, I wanted to be an Anderson. I wanted to be their youngest child, Kathy, who was affectionately called "Kitten" by her adoring Dad who never really ever raised his voice no matter what she may have done. Of course, Kitten never did anything serious, she never drank under age or threw tantrums or

didn't come home in time for dinner. Kitten's indiscretions tended more to be along the line of borrowing her sister's sweater without permission or breaking an ornament while throwing a pillow in the house and hiding the pieces from her parents. The only resemblance between Kitten and me was we both wore our hair in ponytails and wore dresses with Peter Pan Collars. But for me, a young girl growing up in Montreal without an older sister whose sweaters I could borrow without permission, that was enough.

      Based very loosely on current trends and morals, sit-coms take what we see around us and exaggerate them for laughs and ratings. Families like the Cleavers evolved into families like the ones on My Three Sons and The Brady Bunch, one parent or blended families. One parent families being held together by a hard working father, widowed of course, and a gruff but loving uncle who cooked and cleaned and ironed. This morphed into the blended family like The Brady Bunch, widow and widower get together and their kids learn to live under one roof with very little bickering or dissention other than minor squabbles that are quickly remedied by Mom and/or Dad.  Again,  acknowledging that not all families are the same. All In The Family was a new kind of family and perhaps a more realistic depiction of how people

lived when it first aired. Dad worked in a factory, didn't wear a cardigan, hung out at a bar and Mom didn't wear a string of pearls as she chopped her cucumber. There was only one child, not a precocious child but a grown woman who worked to support her student husband. Now that's a family that we can probably all relate to!

      So, does Two and a Half Men depict our society today? What about Modern Family? In todays society there are same-sex couples who live in harmony and with the acceptance of their families. Modern Family portrays Mitchell and Cameron as a couple who encounter the same problems that all couples have and doesn't get bogged down with serious problems they may encounter because they are gay. 

In some ways I'm supposing both Two and a Half Men and Modern Family have a grain of reality of how family life is today. I'm also supposing that as long as they get laughs and ratings the networks will evolve family based sit-coms in whatever manner they choose. Who knows, we may once again see Moms chopping cucumbers while wearing dresses and high heels but I somehow doubt it.

BRIDAL SHOWERS, THEN AND NOW

        It had been many years since I'd been invited to a bridal shower so when I received invitations to attend two within the space of a couple of weeks I was actually excited. I remember well how showers were constructed back in the late 60s and early 70s when it felt like they were pretty much the social scene every summer as all of our friends of a certain age were getting married.
      Once upon a time bridal showers were made up of some fairly standard yet unspoken rules. The shower was organized by the maid-of-honour and/or other friends but never by family members. The mother of the bride and the soon to be mother-in-law were in attendance at each shower, the food was much the same at each one, there were no children and never alcohol. The bride would be invited to someone's home under some false pretext such as the birth of a litter of kittens or the maid-of-honour

experiencing  some sort of crisis that needed the attention of the bride. In anticipation of the arrival of the guest of honour, and in fits of giggles, each guest relayed how she nearly spilled the beans about the shower when she met the bride by accident at Zellers or at the hairdresser or when they double dated two weeks ago. Time is spent admiring the cake, each others outfits and there is an audible feeling of excitement as we all awaited the imminent arrival of the soon to be bride.  When she shows up at the home where the shower is to take place, hopefully wearing something awful like paint splattered shorts or rollers in her hair, her friends jump out from their hiding places behind couches and chairs screaming, SURPRISE, much to the delight of the bride. It's her chance to be the centre of attention, to sit in the decorated chair and tell everyone how terribly surprised she is, that she had no idea at all. Well look at her, wearing cutoffs and hardly any make-up and the rollers in her hair...no she had no idea.

The shower has officially begun and a format is followed to ensure everyone has a good time. Games like Wedding Movie Charades or Raid the Purse are played.  The winners are delighted with their prize; usually something along the lines of a gift of colourful measuring cups or wooden salad spoons. After the games have been played, the bride, sitting in an arm chair decorated with paper wedding bells, opens her gifts one by one. Holding up tea towel after tea towel, pot holder after pot holder, tea cup after tea cup, smiling broadly from ear to ear, she tells each guest that you can never have too many tea towels, pot holders, tea cups, etc. One of the guests, the one with more spunk than the rest, has the important job of writing down everything the bride says while opening her gifts.  These scribbles are then read out to signify what the bride will say on her honeymoon night. “Ooooh, it's perfect.” “Can you believe it? It's beautiful.” “I've never seen one like that before.” Blushing, the bride laughs while glancing at her mother and future mother-in-law to see how they are reacting to this particular game. 

      After the gifts have been opened and suitably fawned over and the honeymoon conversation has been read, lunch is served. You are offered little egg salad or tuna salad or cucumber sandwiches that are strategically placed on colourful paper doilies. Of course, the crusts have been cut from the bread to make them dainty and bite-sized. At a swift glance you realize there are three per person. There is a pot of tea steeping and some lemonade to drink and an assortment of petite cookies. The beautiful cake is proudly produced with Congratulations written in icing, colour coordinated to match the paper doilies holding the sandwiches. The bride and her friends pose together, the bride poses with her gifts, the bride poses with the cake as each guest with a camera takes her turn. This can take up to 30 minutes but no one cares, everyone wants her picture taken with the bride. 

      I have been, in the past, to many showers that resemble what I have just described. In fact, I have been guilty of hosting a few too. It all sounds kind of silly but back then it wasn't. It was exciting and fun and we loved it. We were proud of our crustless sandwiches and our attempts to surprise the bride. We kind of hoped to catch her not looking her best to prove that she was well and truly surprised. We enjoyed watching the shocked faces of older relatives as we read the imaginary honeymoon conversation and hoped the comments would be lurid if taken the 'wrong' way.

      The showers I attended this summer were equally fun and oh so modern. The first shower was held outside and the hostess grilled sausages, hamburgers and chicken burgers that were served with an array of fresh salads. A little chocolate cake surrounded by tasty brownies, Nanaimo bars and other such goodies was laid out as dessert. No one went hungry. There were a few games but for the most part it was a group of friends and family getting together to honour the bride to be. The bride was dressed appropriately because she knew about the shower. The gift assortment, if you compared it with the gifts of the 60s/70s was nothing short of mind boggling. A few tea towels, to be sure, along with beautiful sets of glasses, a vase, an electric fan, two Adirondack chairs, champagne in a silver bucket, and on and on. Beautiful, well thought out gifts; even some clothing to take on her honeymoon.

      The best gift, in my humble opinion, was a beautiful and very sexy white nightie, a gift from the bride's 85 year old Grandmother. No one blushed. How times have changed.

      The second shower I attended was in honour of the bride-to-be's second marriage. The hostess gave us a theme; "Tacky Wedding Shower". We guests dressed up in the most tacky outfits possible and tacky we were. From ladies wearing their pyjamas and rollers to hooker-type get-ups, and one t-shirt that said Property of Pistol Pete's Porn Palace, we certainly got into the spirit.  Instead of the traditional umbrella, a Vegas-style fake palm tree with glittery lights decorated the bride's chair. . The assortment of food was restaurant worthy and the wine flowed . The bride sat under the fake palm tree with its twinkling fairy lights and opened her tacky gifts. Among
her gifts was a baseball cap that read Porn Star, a vintage LP entitled “Music to Keep Your Man Happy” and various other trinkets, some battery operated. Her main gift, a Keurig coffee maker complete with a selection of coffee, was presented to her from the group.

       Yes, it's true. The format of showers has changed over the years. The overall good feeling of friends getting together to honour the bride, share some food and laughs hasn't changed. Another thing that hasn't changed: The Hat. That's right, The hat made from a pie plate with the ribbons and bows from her gifts taped to it so that pictures of the bride wearing it can be taken. At both showers I attended this summer the bride was obligated to continue this tradition. And I believe that's how it should be. We have all worn that pie plate hat and it's only fair. Some traditions are just too grotesque and heart-warming to give up.

Give Me a Head With Hair

          All Baby-boomers remember the shocking play from the late sixties entitled 'Hair'. It was risque, boisterous and spawned quite a few top ten hits, including the title song, 'Hair'. Hair, and lots of it, was the subject of this song. 

          This got me to wondering. What do we women think about our hair? Don't most of us see our hair as the very essence of being female. We cut it, grow it, colour it, curl it, straighten it, style it, condition it, hot oil it, touch it, twirl it, swish it, flirt with it, hide behind it, and attract the opposite sex with it. It makes us feminine and, like pedicures and days at the spa, sets us apart from the males. It makes us girls.

          Being one of the above described women who is on a first name basis with her hairdresser, imagine, if you will, how I felt when shampooing my hair one day a huge handful came out. Staring at the many, many strands of hair coiled around my hand, in disbelief, I quickly ran my hands through my wet hair again. Even more strands in my hand. I was horrified, shocked and devastated. I started researching the internet. Female baldness. Alopecia. Scary stuff. There were many causes of female baldness but the one that I zeroed in on was not baldness at all. The technical term, Telogen Effluvium, is caused by trauma, having a baby, or major illness. Bingo. A quick trip to the doctor confirmed my findings. No, I haven't had a baby, at least not in the last 37 years and I had suffered no mental trauma. I had been ill. As a matter of fact, just before Christmas of 2010 I had been hospitalized, dramatically ill. So ill, in fact, that I spent seven days in the ICU being pumped full of antibiotics, fluids, and needing oxygen.

Not a happy woman.

Taken the day the hair stopped shedding

           After the initial 'shedding' my hair fell out in huge handfuls every day for two months. Then one day the shedding stopped. Just like that <snapping of fingers> there was no more shedding. Although I had been assured and reassured by the doctor that my hair loss was temporary so much of it had been lost that it seemed to me total baldness was my destiny. I would hazard a guess that over one-half of my hair fell out in those two months. When the shedding did stop the remaining hair was so incredibly damaged and dry it resembled the hair you see on a coconut; brittle, lifeless, sticky-uppy. I was not a happy woman but I was feeling better that my hair had actually stopped falling out.

Chin length bob I had been wearing for years.

    The hair I started out with was thick and curly and viewing my scalp wasn't something I had ever experienced.

This is where a fine hairdresser can be a life-saver. Someone so wonderful you consider inserting her name into your Will, bequeathing her most of your worldly goods. Well, not quite. But certainly good tips and sending referrals her way is nice.

          After the hair stopped falling, hair cut number one saw me sporting a kind of spiky little number that required a lot less product than before. Where I once used a golf ball sized squeeze of styling mousse a dime sized squirt now did the job. It dried much quicker too. Six weeks later, hair cut number two was just a small snip here and there. I began to feel new thickness in my hair; also a crazy itchiness of my scalp as new growth started to come through. Every now and then I would find abstract wisps of hair around my hair line that wouldn't sit up or sit down, just twist in a weird kind of unstructured curl. But do I

mind? Absolutely not. Perfect hair has never been my goal. Too thick, too curly-headed and too lazy to manage the stretching and blow drying necessary to keep up a perfect coif. Too much humidity to worry about my straightened hair frizzing up on me. I have always kept my curly hair in a natural state and the new hair is as tightly coiled as a spring.

Crazy curls. Phase 2.

          
           I  actually had some compliments on my new 'summer cut'. Cute, easy, great for summer were some of the reactions I received. Wow. Going to my hairdresser over the course of a year was an adventure unto itself. I enjoyed waiting for the colour to take, seeing what style she was going to produce as she snip, snip, snipped away. I liked hearing her promise that by Christmas I'd have all my hair back. 
          And she was right. My  hair did come back. The tightly coiled curls relaxed and I was back to my softer curled bob. Then another change. I am now left with hair unlike any hair I have never known or understood. It's not straight, exactly, but the curls have relaxed to the point where I can now have a totally different look should I choose. With my awesome hairstylist's advice and know-how I am now sporting a spiffy up-to-date look. The chin length curly bob I had been wearing for 10 or so years was on the chopping block, so to speak.

Not so curly now

Do I mind that my hair has changed drastically since the start of this metamorphosis that started in 2010? Well, no. Quite frankly, I just am so happy to once again have hair on my head that is not falling out by the  handful. Yes, it's vanity for sure. But it's hair after all. The essence of being female and I actually like being female. And like the song says, Give Me a Head With Hair.

Where's Bobby's Girl? Music of the 60s.

I have been thinking lately about the songs of the 60s, when lyrics seemed to fall into two categories: boy lyrics and girl lyrics. Not the fast tunes, I'm talking about the heart breaking, sad, slow dance songs that I believe had a theme. Boy lyrics revolved around unrequited love in the style of Roy Orbison and Bobby Vinton or death and sadness songs such as Tell Laura I Love Her. The boy loses the love of his life because she dies, he dies or he simply loses her to someone else. If it's the latter, he always sees her again and that's when we hear his plaintive song, 'Yes, now you're gone, And from this moment on, I'll be crying, Crying, crying, yeah crying'

Girl lyrics leaned toward desperation. Desperation to find true and lasting love. Songs of such neediness the singer throws herself at the feet of the object of her undying love. Songs like I Will Follow Him “I will follow him, Follow him wherever he may go.....” Or the hit, Johnny Get Angry, the lyrics begging the boyfriend to be more manly and get angry and....”I want a brave man, I want a cave man. Johnny show me that you care, really care for me.” The song implies that an angry boyfriend who yells at you and punches other people to show his love for you is desirable. In Bobby's Girl – the singer implores the heavens...”If I was Bobby's girl, If I was Bobby's girl, What a faithful thankful girl I'd be.” The word 'thankful' is just a little disturbing.

Now, don't get me wrong. I loved those songs back then, I still do today. But I wonder what impact those kinds of words had on impressionable young girls. The words seemed to be telling us, the females of the species, we needed a man to look after us no matter what. We needed a man to validate our existence and make our lives full and meaningful and we should have been thankful when it happened. Were we so desperate for love we would throw away any other ambitions and simply wait to be married to Johnny or Bobby or Bill thinking that was the end? Marriage was the end and there was nothing else beyond that? Kind of like fairy tales that end with the line, “And they lived happily ever after.”, taking for granted that the story ends right there with the marriage. Mission accomplished, nothing left to attain.

What happened to we girls from the 60s who listened to 'desperation songs'? Did we start out staring dreamily at a boy with a big head of Fabian type hair willing him to notice us? When he noticed us, did we forsake all others, even our closest girlfriends, and live only for his calls and our Friday night dates? Did the inevitable happen and we too got a fairy tale ending that read, 'And they lived happily ever after'? 

Personally, I've never believed that the words of a song could mold someone's life. I think those of us who danced to Johnny Angel in the arms of our high school sweethearts knew it was a song. When you're young, swaying to a slow song with your boyfriend is about as romantic as it gets. Once the music stopped or the song dropped out of the top 20 we moved on to the next hit. They were only words, after all, simple words meant to rhyme and fit the music for which they were written.

And what of us girls who swayed to those songs with the dreamy look in our eyes? What became of us? Many of us believed the dream and married our high school sweethearts at a young age; some successfully and some not so successfully. Some who were not successful moved right along through life and changed and grew. Some were college and university graduates who paved the way for women behind them in traditionally male professions. Many fought, marched for and brought about change. Those same girls became legal minds and doctors and executives while raising families. Women with a purpose.

Of course we swayed to the sentimental words, clutched to the boyfriend of the moment. That's what being young was, but, that didn't, in any way, mold or define our lives. At least, I don't believe it did. We were smart enough to know they were just words. Goofy, sentimental, simple, yet compelling words set to lyrical music so we could dance. Now, when we hear those same songs on some oldie station, memories transport us back in time. Once again, wearing our culottes, madras shirts and penny loafers, we feel the arms of our high school sweetheart around us and, once more, dance to our favourite slow song.

A Mother's Day Tribute

       

     She was a slender, elegantly dressed woman of English birth living in a small village of twenty or so families in an outpost of Newfoundland. She had wonderful posture and she crossed her legs when she sat, was always stylishly dressed and she drank vodka and orange. She played the piano and the accordion, she smoked with a certain elegance reminiscent of a 1940s movie star, she had a sarcastic and fast wit and she was a nurse. She was also my mother.

      My earliest recollections of her involve skirts that were worn mid-calf, below which were always high heeled shoes. I was small and the skirts seemed to me voluminous and were, at the age of three, the essence of her, my mother. When she wasn't wearing dresses and high heels she was in her white nursing shoes and a crisp white, cotton nursing uniform. People came to her so that she could dress their wounds, vaccinate their children, remove fish hooks and deliver babies. The district doctor visited our village and all the other little villages only periodically and when he made his rounds she went with him.

      Wearing a rain slicker and hat and her white nursing shoes she hopped into a dory in the dead of night to help the doctor as he ministered to the sick and dying. Gone was the well dressed young woman from London. Gone was my mother of the skirts and high heels. In her place was a nurse, all business and professionalism. Gliding across the ocean in the dory or perhaps rocking violently in a raging sea, off she went to be the nurse. It was her calling and no one could have done it better.

      When she wasn't rowing off to other out ports she conducted office hours in the surgery that had been set up in our home. She had an x-ray machine back there, scales, lots and lots of gauze and bandages, splints for setting broken bones, medicines, the makings of casts and lots and lots of thermometers. She removed thousands of fishing hooks from various parts of fishermens' bodies. She delivered babies, performed appendectomies, tonsillectomies, helped nurse the children through measles, mumps, chicken pox and consoled the families when someone did not survive. She made house calls in the manner of a rural doctor taking with her potions and lotions and medicines. Her surgery was large and well stocked and always locked. I was allowed in only when some child was frightened of the needle and I was to set a good example by being vaccinated first.

      She was a good nurse and she loved her profession. She loved everything about it. She loved her sturdy, stiff nursing hat that indicated by its shape and the colour of its band from which hospital she graduated. She loved her clean white and starched uniforms with her graduation brooch pinned safely to her bosom, just above her stop watch. She loved her white nursing shoes with their thick crepe soles and her white stockings. All of these things were to her proud symbols of the hard work and dedication she had put in during war time London. They were her reward for sleeping in a nurses dorm next to a hole in the wall made by an enemy bomb. They were her reward for never going underground to the shelters during the heaviest bombing of London, but staying above ground to help. They were her reward for the sacrifices she had made and the sacrifices she had yet to make.

      Training to be a nurse during WWII was no picnic. It was gruelling, frightening and alarming coupled with a certain excitement, momentary thrills and a live for the moment attitude. You were never sure you would live to see the end of this day and tomorrow – well tomorrow you might never see. There were rules to live by that students of today wouldn't tolerate. There were curfews, dress codes and personal conduct was called into question all in the name of upholding the reputation of the nursing profession. Nursing students were required to live in dormitories in the hospital and they weren't particularly comfortable or accommodating. You were to respect your elders and did as you were told.

      Upon graduation she nursed at Basingstoke Hospital, a renowned and well-known hospital that treated burn victims, of which there were many during WWII. While nursing there she met a young man, a Canadian sailor from Newfoundland. He had been very badly injured in a bombed building and she was assigned to be his nurse. Over the weeks months and years that he slowly mended and endured hundreds of operations she nursed him. In addition to her nursing duties, she wrote letters home for him, she read to him and they talked. On February 16^th, 1946, my mother married her patient and my father married his nurse.

      My mother continued to nurse right up until she became ill in 1984. She saw changes that she liked and changes that she didn't like. Advancements in medicine and modern convenience that extended life, she liked. She hated that white cotton uniforms were being phased out in favour of polyester pastels. She felt there was a lack of discipline in the young nurses when compared with her training. Mostly though she lamented the decline of the nurses hat. Starched, stiff, sitting proudly on her head, the band indicating from which hospital she graduated, that's what she really missed. She loved nursing and was proud to wear her cap