An old friend, P. J. Hammer,
dropped by today and left a kindly and uplifting message
for me.
This is the sort of thing that can feed upon itself and
give one hope that all is not for naught. It is always
inspiring to hear from people for whom one has respect
and admiration.
Thank you Pete.
Thank you ever so much for your kind words.
Much appreciated.
- gwen
A MODERN LOVE STORY
I was waiting for my time to give birth. I had a long wait.
Outside the door to my hospital room, in a convoy of babies
born that day, were being wheeled in their tiny, clear plastic
cribs on their way to the Nursery. They had just come from
being fed by their new mothers. I asked one of the two Nurses
in charge to stop for a minute as I had, out of the corner of
my eye, seen this absolutely gorgeous, cute, tiny little head
of wispy, black tufts of hair belonging to a most adorable
little baby girl. Oh my God, she was most beautiful baby I'd
ever seen. Huge dark pools for eyes. All dressed in pale pink
with pale blue ribbons. What a sight! I never forgot her. I
followed them right to the Nursery, and through the glass
watched silently at that one crib and never let my eyes wander.
A routine I would do every day after feeding time for Moms.
That evening in an emergency last minute turn of events, I
gave birth by C-Section to my son Iain Christopher at precisely
8:20 PM.
The years and decades passed and Iain grew into an interesting
adolescent with periwinkle, flashing blue eyes that could be used
as Stop lights, flaxen blond hair, with a wonderful smile that
somehow made him look like he was doing an imitation of Donald Duck
- that mouth of his! It was cute and always made me smile. He was
the most natively intelligent, gentle, quiet, somewhat reserved
young man, with a wonderful sense of humour. The sort of kid you
could sit down with and have a real conversation on any number of
subjects. Iain's insights were as startling as they could be
devastating in one so young.
Memorably he did have this one girlfriend when he was in his first
year of high school. Johanne Bergeron, a classmate, whom I always
called "Yohanee" much to his chagrin. "How's Yohanee?" I'd laugh.
"MOM! Stop that. Her name is JOHANNE, not "Yohanee"!", he'd reply in
frustration. "I don't know, sounds like Yohannee to me," I'd feign
Ignorance. "Well, just don't call her 'Yohannee' when she's here,
or I'll die of mortification." Johanne was a quiet, serious, smart,
tiny very cute brunette from an ultra Pentecostal family. How those
two happened forever remained a mystery to us. But we liked her.
Fast forward, Iain was by now in Toronto working full-time at his
job as a photographer and photo-journalist. He was sharing his
apartment with a girl. They'd been living together for some time. He
was totally smitten wih her...loved her to pieces. Very obviously a
"keeper". I teased them both, a lot. I liked her immediately. One
Easter when they came to Montreal for the week-end we were standing
in the kitchen and I asked her if she loved Iain and without any
hesitation she looked me straight in the eye and replied, "Yes, I
love him very much." I liked that she was so focused, more mature,
more stable, more of a lot of qualities and always felt and told Iain
that she was the best thing that ever happened to him. Out of Wendy's
presence I asked Iain the same question I'd posed to her, "Do you love
Wendy?" I needn't have asked. Together, they complemented each other
in every way. I was happy for both. They lived together for eight whole
years. I kidded Iain on his trips home about that too. "Honey," I'd say
to him, "living in sin are you? I know a little church up the street..."
The usual: "MOM....!"
It wasn't easy for them as they struggled with their lives together,
their careers, their hopes and dreams for the future. The love of Iain's
life was always Wendy. There had never was any girl in his life whom he
loved quite so much and with such dedication as to Wendy from the get-go.
Here's the kicker:
Iain and Wendy met each other in downtown Montreal quite by accident
when Iain was then age 16.
Wendy was born in Montreal, St. Mary's Hospital, May 7, 1963, 8:00AM
Iain was born in Montreal, St. Mary's Hospital, May 7, 1963, 8:20PM
Mother's day that year, fell on Sunday, May 9th - which was also my
21st birthday.
What kind of odds are those? The Fates would have it.
Iain and Wendy were married to each other, moved to Seattle, Washington,
and have two beautiful children - a girl: Bronwyn; a boy: Lucas
(pronounced "Luka).
They both have active careers, are wonderful parents who love their
children more than anything. I'm happy for them all. No parent could ask
for more.
Wendy still remains the sun, the moon and the stars around which his
world revolves.
Wonder what became of 'Yohannee'? ha ha ha...
Irving Layton on Irving Layton
"It is as dangerous to overestimate the goodness of people
as to underestimate their stupidity."
"My neighbour doesn't want to be loved as much as he wants
to be envied."
"When you argue with your inferiors, you convince them
of only one thing: they are as clever as you."
"God is indeed dead. He died of self-horror when He saw
the creature He had made in His own image."
"If poetry is like an orgasm, an academic can be likened
to someone who studies the passion stains on the bedsheets."
"Since I no longer expect anything from mankind except
madness, meanness, and mendacity; egotism, cowardice, and
self-delusion, I have stopped being a misanthrope."
"Everything except writing poems and making love ends up
by finally boring me."
"Blake was right; praise is the practice of art. Joy,
fullness of feeling, is the core of the creative mystery.
My dominant mood is that of ecstasy and gratitude. To have
written even one poem that speaks with rhythmic authority
about matters that are enduringly important is something
to be immensely, reverently thankful for - and I am
intoxicated enough to think I have written more than one."
"Idealist: a cynic in the making."
~*~*~*~
The Kindness of Water
Pencil in my life with gentle strokes,
In water colours of pale blues, and tawny yellows.
I'll pencil in your life with watery memories
Of all the good times we both knew.
Use an eraser, while I forgive that I forgot
That you have loved, and that I have too.
And when we meet again, at the end of some
Train of thought, we will smile to one another.
Let us pencil in our memories,
With kindness and forethought.
(c)Gwen Beauregard - 2010 - All Rights Reserved
Wherein, upon visiting our local art gallery, the horse keeled over and died laughing.
Much closer to the unadulterated truth.
This looks much better animated. It will have to do.
It's always both a pleasure and a little surprising to me when
I am visited by my StumbleUpon acquaintances, some of whom have
become something of cherished friends over the years. My cup
runneth over, all the way down my bib. Dribble, dribble. Good
to the last drop.
It's not that I've done a whole bunch of promotions of COLD PRESS
since most often I tend to forget that I even have a weblog. Then
someone will come along and remind me. It gives me a rare
opportunity to scribble something inane and move it a bit forward,
if only by half measures.
I tend to feed off of other people's energies which revitalizes
my own. As such, I thank everyone who drops in to take a sneak
peak at what COLD PRESS is.
I get a natural "high" on people, I've never needed any other drug.
There isn't really that much here that can't be found on my
StumbleUpon pages. The wheels of the gods grind slowly - but
they do grind.
Gwen Beauregard
