all things great and small

I've been trying to reconcile my crushing, pre-cognitize love for critters of every kind with my need to put theory behind my ideas. I'm not there yet. I don't think it's impossible. But it could take a while. Years, even.

(To the right: Ned, an elephant confiscated from his owner and placed with The Elephant Sanctuary in Tennessee. As you can see from the picture, Ned was very emaciated upon his arrival at the Sanctuary. They are slowly nursing him back to health. For more about elephant welfare, and and to learn why they should never be in captivity, visit the Sanctuary online at Elephants.com)


A few quotes from Thalia Field's Incarnate that have me some of my re-thinking my (liberal, middle-class, privileged) emotions:

While Hediger [sic] famously watched zoo-keepers
psyche-out the inmates with excessive petting
killing with a kindness as unbearable as direct flame
the keepers's self-love of love
a revolting and deadly obsession with touching
the worst possible torture
within a general overarching torture

(p.104)


I'm thinking about the 41 dead stingrays at the Calgary Zoo, and how the officials still don't know what killed them. And why, in this year of our lord [sic] 2008, must we humans still insist on touching the animals?

only tameness, if achieved, is calming, finally
the suffering wild animal resigns
to the stink of the enemy's hands
on everything

(p. 107)


Our sense of entitlement, as humans. Our sense of ownership over the natural world. How it's killing us and we don't even know it. Dr. Georgia Mason talking to Bob MacDonald on Quirks and Quarks about her study about "whether zoos are a good thing or not for elephants." The fact that captive elephants live only half as long as their wild counterparts. How Dr. Mason argues persuasively, I thought, against the keeping of elephants in captivity, and moving them around from zoo to zoo, until the very end of the interview, where she merely suggests that perhaps we need to improve how we move them. I respectfully disagree. Layperson and poet though I am, I think these animals are more intelligent and emotional than we can apprehend with our knowledge and our science, and I maintain that it is as damaging to an elephant to be moved every seven years as it would be to a human to move him or her every seven years, away from friends and family, into a strange situation and with no say on the matter. Think about it. How would you cope?

as zoos get upgraded with scented toys
and other props, artificial snowbanks and "real" carcasses
eliciting new repertoire and better performances
for the captive audience
and still the keepers wonder why hiding remains most
critical to the survival of animals

(p. 121)

The baby elephant that died at the Calgary Zoo

The baby giraffe that died at the Vancouver zoo

Hazina the hippo who died after transfer to the Calgary Zoo

The baby gorilla that died at the Calgary Zoo (is anyone else seeing a theme here?)

Baby lemurs abandoned at the Winnipeg Zoo

Why do we think they own them?

on death, on grief

His earthly remains lie buried alongside others in the forest behind the Nursery Stockades, a natural and peaceful baby elephant cemetery, but we are confident that his little elephant spirit will surely be romping around with his dear friend Kungu, where suffering is no more somewhere in the Great Somewhere.

-On the passing of Barseloi, David Sheldrick Wildlife Trust

another homage to the mineral of borscht

(after Moure)


time for an “homage to the basic mineral of borscht.” and beets and cabbage. we bring potatoes peeled and sliced thin. press the delicate earthy flesh into the old lady’s palms, clean as soil. there’s no language here; no words for the smooth embrace of cabbage leaf against her cheek. only mushrooms and lilacs, leather and orange. the back of her neck smells of citrus and musk.


the nun said ‘if she’s unable to swallow the host, come find me. i have to wrap it in a tissue and burn it.’


o flesh of my flesh. always tilling the earth. always scrubbing the pots. neurons fail; you lose strength and cannot move. none of use speak ukrainian; no mother tongue to lick your face clean. we brought rabbits and chocolate milkshakes but should have packed carrots and onions in a wheelbarrow. chopped and boiled. we could have filled your bed with vegetables and water.


she said remember when i used to pick you up from school and take you out for lunch said you grew up too fast she said i’ll never meet my great-grandchildren. the end of speech reduces us to letter-boards and blinking. please scratch my nose my arm hurts please my elbow thank you for the letter yes no please thank you always thank you.


i should have brought beets, sliced them widthwise, pointed to the purple concentric rings. this is my blood; drink from it. it will be shed for you and for all so that sins may be forgiven.



did they have to break your bones to straighten your hands? folded with rosary beads. we brought smoke and white roses tablecloths starched white stiff. we brought incense and holy water. we should have filled the casket with borscht and rye bread. we should have brought you fresh laundry anais anais and cigarettes.



no language for amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. the soul makes no sound when it leaves.



‘toward the end, people often open their eyes, some people smile; they just look very placid and calm ’



at the end my brother said i think her brothers and sisters the room filled up with people.

Baba and Dido - April 24th & 25th

April 24th 2008 would have been my grandmother Anne's 78th birthday.

On April 25th 1992 my grandfather Joe died of cancer. Before he died he'd chosen a gold heart pendant necklace out of a jewelry catalogue to give to my grandmother for her birthday. My mother, who was staying with them to assist in Dido's palliative care, went to Birks and purchased the necklace for Baba, as per Dido's wishes. She had it engraved "To Anne, Love Joe."

My mother told me that Dido was not lucid toward the end. He faded in and out of consciousness. But I like to think that he waited till the day after her birthday to go, just as I like to think that she waited till the day after Ukrainian Christmas to go.



Here is an email I recently received from my cousin Warren:

Hi Guys
Had a dream the other night, (which I believe was a message) about Anne and Joe. Walked up to a door and knocked on it and Anne answered. She was wearing a tracksuit. Inside was Joe making coffee. Anne went back to doing her exercises and I asked why a tree in their house was decorated. They said that they just celebrated their anniversary. They said that they were very happy and things are great and they are glad to be together. Woke up and I believe that it was a message from them.
Glad they are happy!
love, Warren

In the 16 years she was without him, Baba did receive occasional attentions from men. A fellow at church, her next-door neighbour. Sometimes they'd hang around for awhile, waiting for a sign of interest. But she couldn't be bothered. She could shovel her own damn walk or pay someone else to do it. He was the love of her life.

Anne Cherwoniak

CHERWONIAK, Anne Sylvia (nee Wasylow) April 24, 1930 - January 8, 2008

Anne left this world peacefully just after midnight on Tuesday, January 8, 2008 with her family at her side. Anne was born in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, the fifth of six children born to Anthony and Maria Wasylow. Her twin brother Walter died when they both caught pneumonia at nine months old. As a child Anne was very athletic and would often be the only girl playing hockey or ice-skating with the boys. She was quite skilled in the domestic arts as well, and was sewing for her mother and acting as neighborhood hairdresser from an early age.

In 1953 she married the love of her life, Joe Cherwoniak of Saskatoon. They moved to Calgary in 1959 with their two children Joanne and Daniel. From 1966 to 1976 Anne worked as a cashier on the Food Floor at Woodwards, Chinook Centre. She had many friends of staff and customers alike. Anne was often regarded as "striking", and was always stopped by strangers commenting on her gorgeous hair. Anne has inspired many with her sense of style and grace. Her happiest days were spent amongst family and friends, especially her grandchildren.

Anne's immediate family suffered many losses. Without hesitation she would travel to where she was needed, for weeks at a time, attending to the needs of the bereaved. She would cook, clean, and as a parting gesture, for which she was often teased, rearrange the furniture. Throughout the years Joanne and Dan's friends were always welcome in her home, knowing very well where the cookies were kept. She always opened her home, boarding friends and family for months at a time (or longer).

In 1991 Anne and Joe moved to Kelowna, British Columbia to begin their golden years together. Sadly, in 1992, Joe passed away from cancer. Undaunted, Anne accepted the challenge of this new phase in her life. She filled her days with home renovations and decorating and was very active with the Ukrainian Catholic Women's League (UCWLC).

In March 2006 Anne was diagnosed with ALS and moved back to Calgary. Anne faced her illness with characteristic determination and fortitude; however, she was also to experience a newfound calm and grace in the face of it. She touched many hearts and lives with her strength, sparkling eyes, infectious laughter and a smile that would light up a room.

The family is grateful for the kindness and attentive care provided to Anne in her last years by the staff at the Father Lacombe Care Centre in Calgary. They went above and beyond to see that her needs were met. Our deepest gratitude go out to Mom's special caregivers: her grandson Chris, Judy, Sherry, Sandy, Monica, Marta, Chelsea, Ginette, Mary Ellen, and Marcela. Also a great big thank you to all of the Doctors and staff at the ALS clinic at the Foothills Hospital. Mom always looked forward to attending the clinics because of the special attention she received. Many thanks go to the ALS Society. The resources they provided helped greatly as Mom's illness progressed. And Jane - you are the best.

Anne was predeceased by her parents, sisters Rose, Alice, Helen, brothers George and Alex and husband Joe. Anne is survived by her daughter Joanne Reimer (Tim), son Dan Cherwoniak (Val), grandchildren Nikki Reimer (Jonathon Wilcke), Chris Reimer, Stefan, Aaron and Elen Cherwoniak; brothers and sisters-in-law, and many loving nieces and nephews. May her strength and love continue to be a source of light to her friends and family in the years to come.

Prayer Services will be held on Sunday, January 13, 2008 at LEYDEN'S FUNERAL HOME, 17 Avenue and 2 Street S.W., Calgary, Alberta at 7:30 p.m. Funeral Mass will be held on Monday, January 14, 2008 at St. Stephen's Ukrainian Catholic Church, 4903 - 45 Street S.W., Calgary, Alberta at 2:00 p.m. with reception to follow. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to the ALS Society (265 Yorkland Boulevard, Suite 300, Toronto, Ontario M2J 1S5). Arrangements entrusted to LEYDEN'S FUNERAL HOME, RECEPTION and CREMATION CENTRE, 17 Avenue and 2 Street S.W., Calgary, Alberta. Telephone: 403-228-4422.

email from my mother

Jan 4, 2008
Hello All

Here is an update on Mom.

She has slipped to another level the last few days. She was having more trouble swallowing, so it was decided to put in 2 butterfly sites. This will enable the staff to inject morphine and an anti anxiety medication.

Mom was having a few days of discomfort and they were unable to comfort her with just morphine. So it was decided yesterday to take her off any oral medication and prepare these 2 sites.
So now she is on the ‘comfort measures’ time. This is what she requested when we filled out the ‘My Voice Workbook’ over a year ago.

Mom has been extremely strong and brave through this illness and now she will not have to fight anymore.

We want to Thank all of you who sent flowers, cards and letters. They brightened her day and her room. Also thank you to all those who have called and shared funny stories and sent their love.

So now we ask for your continued prayers as she enters this next phase of this illness. We have been blessed with all of the love and care that Mom and the family have received throughout this time. So many amazing friends, family and careworkers have supported us as well as the wonderful staff of Father Lacombe. We couldn’t have gone on the journey without all of them and you.

I promise to continue to update you as the days go by. If you have addresses for anyone who may not be on my list please forward this.

Love and Hugs,

Jo

ps – also wanted to let you know Mom’s wishes for after.
We will have 2 funerals.
The first one will be at St. Stephen Ukranian Catholic Church.
The second will be a Memorial service at First Memorial
Funeral Home in Kelowna.
With of course the internment at the Cemetery beside Dad.

pps – Anyone considering a visit now should feel free to call. As
always Mom is very strong and has many moments, so far, when she is
very aware.

ppps – Also I suppose now may be the time to consider anything anyone
may want to say at the Memorial service – just in case you want to
prepare.

Thank you all for everything.

kids on holiday

It's true what they say that you can never go home again.

Or rather,

Whenever you get there, there’s no there there

There will have shifted out of focus and you have to start over again. Skeletons spill from closets and you say "My, but aren't you big!" and "Certainly the last time we chatted you were a mite smaller, weren't you old chap?" and he's a pleasant fellow so he nods and grins his gleaming teeth at you.

Every homecoming is a chance to discover new and fascinating details relating to your family's dysfunction. Of which you were of course previously aware in a broad sense, neurotic child of the suburbs that you are, but the true extent of which has heretofore remained a mystery. Until now, whilst drinking way too much alcohol and listening to stories of, for example, gross alcoholism, possible sexual abuse, failed suicide attempts. Stories that make you shriek "WHAT?!?!" in shock and awe. This will happen daily, and when you least expect it.


Elsewhere, the trope of dead and dying grandparents waits around every corner. You may recall from creative writing courses that the topic is trite, cliche, overwrought and doesn't make for good poetry. Which is theoretically fine until you see her hanging from the lift like a rag doll. It takes four people to move her from her bed to her wheelchair so that she can go to the dining room and try to choke down her mush. She can't swallow too well these days. Water has to be thickened. You're told that life is easily sustained while she can still drink liquids. After that, it's five to ten days of dehydration before the end. There's no illusions that she'll be here next Christmas.

You put a hand against her forehead to keep it from banging into the metal brace of the lift as she is hoisted, limbs hanging limply, stiff hands that held back your own hair when you were a child and often vomited into garbage pails. It was a hobby then, the stomach virus. She would stand at the foot of your bed and tell you that she wanted to carry your feverish stomach-aches for you. You recognize now that this is a weird and slightly inappropriate thing to say to a five year old. It's ok. You want to carry this for her now, this suffering, this fucking death sentence.


There are home movies to watch. In one clip, circa 1990, she's put your baby brother into a two-wheeled horse cart, and she picks up the cart and trots him around the ring adjacent to Mary and Ed's farmhouse, just north of Black Diamond. It's summer, there's extended family, a distant relative visiting from Poland who speaks no English. Baba has to translate. This is funny because Polish and Ukrainian are close, but not exactly the same language. She's wearing white shorts and has borrowed fron someone a turquoise sweater that hangs nearly to the hem of the shorts. Her legs are shapely and olive-coloured. The horse cocks his head as he watches her as if to say, "WTF, lady?" Another clip from the same year, her surprise 60th birthday party at your parents' house on Woodmont. Her brother and son play guitars and sing while she dances the jive with your grandfather. Your Dido will be dead two and a half years after this movie is shot from a cancer that no one saw coming.



The priest who baptized you nearly 28 years ago wanders the hallways of the Care Centre - he's now prisoner of the Alzheimer ward. The other day your mother passes him in the hall and says, as always, "Hello, Father." He stops suddenly, looks at her, exclaims "you look GREAT!"


You went to Mass for her. Though you lied the whole way through. You don't believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy catholic church. You don't believe in the communion of saints. You don't believe in the forgiveness of sins. You don't believe in the resurrection of the body. Though you'll admit to holding out some vain bit of hope for life everlasting.

A thousand tiny miracles, like so many drops of oil in the sun.

on grief, part one

My Ukrainian maternal grandmother (Baba) is in the late stages of ALS, also known as Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, or Lou Gehrig's disease, after the baseball player who died of it in 1941. The same disease felled jazz great Charles Mingus, but they don't call it Charles Mingus disease, which is a shame.

I suppose to say that she's been an important figure in my life is an understatement, as I do think her influence has been profound. I was her first and only grandchild for six years until my brother was born, so in my early years we spent quite a bit of time together. She used to pick me up from kindergarten in her vintage Thunderbird convertible, which I thought was so glamourous.

She watched me in the early years when my mom still worked at the bank, when my parents went to Hawaii, and Palm Springs, and each trip they took to the hospital after each miscarriage.

Because of her passion and penchant for narrative - her ability to corral her helpless listener into hour upon hour of reminiscence - I came to appreciate the art of a good story. Because of her patrician good looks, penchant for fine clothing and irrepressible vanity, I've developed a keen eye for the aesthetic; I refuse to leave the house without lipstick on, and I've studied mirrors very closely for the past 27 years. Due to her perfectionism and demanding attitudes towards housekeeping/cleaning, I've turned a defiantly blind eye to every domestic task that's ever crossed my path.

There's one right and twelve wrong ways to make the bed? Fuck that!

Any condition (life itself) that is terminal is indeed cruel, but it seems to me that ALS is harsher than most. The body dies, agonizingly slow, with the human being still trapped inside.

At first it curbed her fierce independence.

Mobility limited, and with the right side of her body weakened, she was forced to move into my parent's home for what turned out to be nine months; a gestation period towards an ending rather than a beginning; a pregnant decline. She hauled herself around on a walker and tried to make herself useful by unloading the dishwasher and placing the items on the counter for my dad or brother to put away. She hadn't the strength to lift a dish into the cupboard but she hated to sit around. She kept her little corner of the kitchen table tidy and bitched about the general mess of the place. So Taurus stubborn.

I used to think she was going to outlive us all; perhaps she did too.

Not only was she physically tough; having survived the pneumonia that killed her twin brother at 4 months, having survived getting hung up by her arm from a nail as a child, having survived severe burns to her face and body as a young woman, (and she walked to St. Paul's Hospital at 6 o'clock each morning to get her dressings changed so no one would see her like that; oh, delicious vanity!) and having walked through a blizzard in Saskatoon in January to the hospital to deliver my mother (this is true) -- she was also stubborn and cantankerous enough that I thought she'd have been preserved from the inside out. She was never sick. She nursed us, my mom, my brother and I, through chicken pox and never caught it. She outlived her husband and her entire family.

I often rolled around on the floor with the brutal agony of menstrual cramps as a pre-teen and she would always recount the tale of her first menstruation, right in the middle of a baseball game. (I'm not sure where this athleticism went, but those genes sure didn't transfer to either my mom or myself; shopping is our preferred team sport.) She felt a trickle as she ran to the home plate so she just kept running, to the confusion of the boys. Went to the outhouse, wrapped rags into her knickers, and ran back out to finish the game.

calgary middle class lifestyle

at higher grounds 2
Originally uploaded by napalm nikki.

I'm still recovering from my ten days in Calgary, during which I ate, drank, ate some more, drank some more, and spent some time with my favourite people. I like this picture because it captures the essence of my happiest times in the town of cows. At a window, drinking coffee, watching the urban landscape. Inasmuch as one can find urban landscapes amidst the urban sprawl. This was at Higher Grounds in Kensington. I also like how you can see the reflection of a latte in the glass. A little bourgeois, perhaps, but sometimes these things can't be helped. I'm from Calgary, for fuck's sake; oil money paid for most of my life. Sometimes it still helps me out with things like plane tickets home to visit dying relatives. I refuse to be ashamed of my middle-class upbringing any longer. Anyway, this street scene is kind of pretty.