Joanne Klassen loves comparing family stories to see if her family is as weird as it seemed at the time. She is founder of Heartspace Writing School, home of Transformative Writing™ . Joanne trains facilitators and offers Life Writing and Transformative Writing programs around the world.  Her articles and stories have appeared in dozens of publications including Chicken Soup for the Soul, Stories for a Better World. Joanne’s books include Tools of Transformation, Trouble in Grandpa’s Golf Bag and Learning to Live, Learning to Love. These stories will appear in the latest Heartspace anthology, to be released in fall 2008.

Two Grandmas’ Houses

On the breakfast table at Grandma and Grandpa Mellerup’s kitchen on Walnut Street in Des Moines, they have things we don’t have at home. Things I like. One is a white china pitcher for milk. It came from Sweden with Grandma’s Grandma. At home we have a glass milk bottle.

I also like what’s in the Mason jar: chunky cinnamon applesauce that Grandma made. It’s like breakfast dessert or you can put it on the Kellogg’s Corn Flakes from the box with the rooster. Right behind it is the little stapled book with the colourful cover that Grandma reads a story and a prayer from after breakfast. A lacy white plastic table cloth covers their table. At home our table is bare. Ours has a gray top and chrome legs.

My Mom is short, like a girl, but both her parents are really tall. Grandpa has white hair and false teeth and tattoos (best kept covered, Grandma says) from when he was a sailor long ago. Grandma is almost as tall as he is, with nice gray hair pulled away from her face and curled, in a beauty parlour.

She wears necklaces and big shiny earrings. She always talks politely. She’s proper and Grandpa is fun, like a kid himself. He shakes hands and slips me a quarter between his fingers, then winks.

Their house is always neat and tidy with books and stacks of Arizona Highways magazines. It smells like lemons and they have lemon drops and sometimes Grandma’s homemade Swedish candied orange peels in a clear glass candy bowl with a lid.

The bedrooms are upstairs and the bathroom with the huge tub with scary lion’s feet is on the main floor. They have a screen porch on the front where I am allowed to sleep with Judy if it is really hot and we are good. Donnie sleeps upstairs with Mama. It’s a quiet house.

When we come to Iowa to visit, Daddy sleeps across town on Maple Street at his own Mom and Pop’s house. I like it better here. It doesn’t look or smell as nice but Aunt Phid and her family live next door on one side and Uncle Willie and his family live on the other side.

Grandma Hindal has a noisy yellow bird in a cage. People are always coming and going, banging doors. Grandpa is yelling and everyone teases everybody. It isn’t neat and clean all the time, or ever, really. There’s a black cat clock that rolls his eyes and wags his tail and I get to stay up later, way later.

I don’t know why Mom doesn’t want me to stay here—it only seems fair to share. She says she’s afraid I won’t brush my teeth or say my prayers, which I don’t, but nobody seems to mind.

Joanne Klassen

Mountain Misery
© Joanne Klassen

Danny Smith wasn't so bad, for a boy. He lived a few houses down the hill by the park.  When he invited me to his birthday party, his mom said something about me being the only girl and more than a little bit of a tomboy.  She acted like she had to keep an eye on me, for no good reason.

I didn't like going to Danny's house much so we mostly hit the baseball in the school yard or rode bikes across from my place where they were building the new houses.  There was this great big steep gravel path on a hill where we liked to race our bikes down.

I didn't see Danny all during the summer after grade 4 till just before school started.  Mama was the camp nurse at 4H camp and we went there for the whole summer.

Camp was pretty good.  I got to stay in a cabin with the older girls. They were fun to be with.  They liked to fix up my hair and got me to wear their full skirts for the square dances.  They all had boyfriends and giggled about who liked who at night after lights out.

I got on my bike almost first thing after we got home from camp and sure enough, here came Danny. 

"Race you to the bottom of the hill, Jo?" 

“You don't have a chance,” I yelled as I stood up on the pedals of my old blue Flyer, leaving Danny in my dust.

As I screeched to a stop at the bottom of the hill the rusty handlebars came flying up and next thing I knew my bike was on top of me.

My bare knees were all bloody with little stones sunk into them.  I remember my cheek feeling sore and when I touched it my hand got sticky and red and it smarted like anything.

I won, but it didn't seem that important. 

"Are you O.K.?" Danny said when I stood up and was brushing the dirt off my neck. Then he wrecked everything by opening his big mouth.

"Geez, what happened to you?  You grew.  Where'd you get those mountains?"

Just like that! The miserable brat pushed on my chest with both his hands.  Not a word about my bloody leg or my possibly broken arm.  What a creep.  You don't touch a girl there, you idiot.

I came out swinging.  I punched him so hard he was knocked out cold.  He was laying there with his nose bleeding when I pumped my bike up the hill as fast as I could.

What did he expect?  That's it.  Just forget riding bikes with me and your crummy birthday party.  I never liked your mom anyway.  You can find somebody else to play ball with you, dumbo. 

I hate you, Danny Smith!

Fatherland
 “Bless the Cook”
© Joanne Klassen 2008

I first saw the term “fatherland” in Story Catchers, a new book by Christina Baldwin.  As I began to think about what resides in that place within me, an image from Christmas day, two weeks ago, crept in. It enfolded me in a warm glow and made me smile.

For more than 30 years my husband Ted has thoughtfully gifted our immediate family with a special brunch at a hotel on Christmas day.  The numbers around the table have swelled and shrunk over the years as our five children added boyfriends and girlfriends, and later spouses and children to the circle. 

This year Anna and her husband Stu are expecting their first baby in Birmingham, England where they live.  Tiffany and husband Luke are busy with 2 ½ year old Ben and 6 month old Leah in Rockville, Maryland, their home. Ty, our oldest, is farm-sitting in the Slocan Valley of British Columbia, near youngest son, Mike, his partner Laurel, and children Hartley, Alora and Riley, who are enjoying their first home in Salmo.  That left a small table at Christmas brunch with just Ted and I and Winnipeggers, Steve, his wife Val, seven year old Noah and four year old Lily.

At the end of Steve’s prayer over Christmas Brunch at the Holiday Inn, almost as a post script, Noah piped up with a phase I’ve only heard my Dad say, “And bless the cook!” Noah and Dad never met.  Dad passed away last February.  Mom and Dad’s last trip from their home in Michigan, to visit Manitoba, took place the year before Noah was born.

When Noah was three I mentioned one day that my dad always said, “Bless the cook” at the end of meal prayers. At our house I have heard Noah add this phrase to the end of “God is Great God is good…”  My dad wasn’t shy about exercising the practice of mealtime prayer in restaurants, which at times, I admit, embarrassed me.  When I heard Noah spout out this closing wish at the Holiday Inn, I was transported, body, heart and spirit, back to the fatherland.  In his great-grandson, the lively voice of Don Hindal, my dad, caresses me still.

Who We Were
© Joanne Klassen

Mom was white starched nurse’s uniforms
A crisp cap with black velvet band, arrow straight,
Bobby pins in neat brown curls.

She was Cashmere Bouquet dusting powder,
Cotton lacy slips, long-line bras
Girdles & garters, white stockings,
“Are the seams straight?”

She was pristine white soft-soled shoes
Red lipstick kisses
And “Good-bye, be good”
Rushing out the door.

Dad was plaid flannel shirts
White Fruit-of-the-Loom gauzy undershirts
With shoulder straps around strong arms
Lifting us high in the air.

He was jeans, white cotton socks
And steel toed boots
A metal lunch box, thermos
Grease, metal and sweet sweat.

Brown wavy hair
Plastic safety glasses
Melt my heart sky blue eyes shining
Or sleeping, snoring in his big reclining chair.

Ted was tailored business suits and oxford cloth
Shirts in plastic sleeves from the cleaners.
Black knee-high socks, muted silk ties and an unruly beard.

He was leather—briefcases and notebooks,
Polished shoes or cowboy boots.
Always on time, driving the Audi fast,
Then “Do not disturb” faraway till
Time to eat or grab the cribbage board and play.

What will the kids say when they think of me?
I shudder at the images that may remain
Emblazoned in their memory banks.
Carried in their bodies like DNA.

I hope it’s not Kleenex wads and
Red-rimmed eyes.
Let it be dancing in the living room
Singing, pizzas on the floor
Books in bed or splashing at sunset
On the lakeshore.

Grief is…  
© Joanne Klassen 2007

Grief is fog, sleet, a tsunami, a volcano, a waterfall you didn’t expect beside a single desert blossom.

Grief is uncommon, unvarnished emotion.  It is outrage over unintended slights, annoying platitudes.

Grief is Grand Canyon-deep gratitude for unexpected kindness, words of comfort, precious cards.

Grief is skinned-knee all-over tenderness, faded parchment fragility, over-exposed vulnerability.

It is re-ordered priorities, distressing trivialities, stroking guarded pearls of memory.

Grief is hug-hunger, solace-seeking withdrawal. It is longing for acknowledgement of unmasked sorrow.

Grief is climbing mountains of the mundane, slip-sliding, frightening mental power outages.

It is mechanically walking slow-mo through a Tilt-a-Whirl world, spilling, tripping, forgetting to zip.

Grief is wordlessness, blubbering to strangers, re-telling enshrined stories like a child, for the 100th time.

It is an empty fridge, no appetite, eating peanut butter out of the jar, last drops of years-old Drambuie.

Grief is going home to your God, leaning into the arms of grace, praying to get through one more hour.

Dedicated to all who grieve, each in our own way.

Cynthia Booden Firth
Cynthia's dynamic and creative approach to life is reflected in her passion for the visual arts and the written word.  Well-travelled, well-read and well-versed in matters of the mind and heart, she embraces life with both reverence and gusto.

FEAR
© Cynthia Booden Firth

Life unfolds and our direction in life proceeds with or without our awareness. Most of us amble along without a cosmic road map of where or what our ultimate destination is.  The path itself is full of inherent obstacles and detours. But, when we finally begin to make some progress in figuring out our life’s treasure map, there is often something that continues to prevent us from digging in the spot marked X. What is the greatest obstacle in our lives? Truly, it is ourselves. If we could just get “out of our own way” and be open to our destiny, obstacles could have the opportunity to melt away. Our biggest roadblock is our fear. Fear of being wrong and fear of being right. Fear of the unknown and often more importantly, fear of the known. Fear can paralyze the most courageous among us, but conquering that fear can allow even the most fanciful dreams to take flight.

We all seek moments of truth and pure clarity – the second where the mists of uncertainty part and before you lies the authenticity of yourself. I have been blessed and cursed to have experienced that moment many times in my life. Even still, at that crucial time, I allow fear to creep in and allow myself to turn away from it, to deny my shining self. I dismiss the truth as impractical, or worse, believe that I am, at the core, unworthy of such a divine assignment. Thankfully the moment continues to come and I can slowly inch myself towards acceptance and with perseverance, I may even achieve action.

We all seek that clarity; the moment when divine inspiration sends you an epiphany; when you realize what you were meant to be. The moment of a soul deep recognition that this is who I am meant to be.  The clarity is as real as the fear is imagined.
I have begun to think that maybe fear should be a picture. If I could take a picture of my fear, trusting my inner self to recognize it, I would finally be able to frame it and hang it in its place ~ a dark corner in the basement of my soul. Perhaps it is at that moment my fear will succumb to confidence. In the meantime, I need to remember:

You are, just you, you are enough
Hands Empty, Heart Full
You are, just you, you are enough
Angels Call, Voices Sing
You are, just you, you are enough
Laughter Echoes, Smiles shine
You are, just you, you are enough
Soul Mate, Truth of Soul
You are, just you, you are enough
One to one, one to all
You are, just you, you are enough
Life leads, You Dance
You are, just you, you are enough

Crystallis
© Cynthia Booden Firth

Crystal Clear Moments Invade
Pervade my conscious thought
With unconscious brilliance
The path is clear.
Only in these moments,
Vibrating as one with the universe
Many unseen hands
Gentle guides from past and future
Hold me up and push me forward
Through the mist of uncertainty
To the enunciated Truth
Authentic ~ Creative ~ Safe ~ Right
And yet I stumble
Off the Path
Back into the mist
Unable to shine my beacon, I search for yours
Together we can find the way
Alone we are destined to linger in the clouds
Without light, without purpose
Show me your beacon
And maybe I won’t lose mine

Spring
© Cynthia Booden Firth

I am the resurrection and the light.
I rise so that you will have everlasting life.
I am the hopes of mankind personified.
I take the pain and humiliation of all so that you know
I am of you, with you, for you.
I am the resurrection and the light.
I am your guidepost so that you know you live in me and I in you.
I am the path so that you need never walk alone.
I take your pain, your desperation, your sadness and give you hope,
opportunity and gratitude.
I am the resurrection and the light.
I am the joy as you are the celebration.
I am the gift as you are the occasion
I am the light as you are the lantern.
I am the resurrection and the light.

I Am
© Cynthia Booden Firth

I am a woman who seeks the divinity of still. I am lost in the reflections that provide insight.

I am a woman who is most grateful for my life. I am successful in body, mind and spirit.

I am a woman who has faced adversity in my life, yet has come from a life of privilege. The challenges have been to my heart and soul, not just my physical body.

I am a woman who has been blessed with an inner eye and compass ~ a voice that tells me when I am on the right path, or at the very least, when my direction is generally right.

I am a woman who is open to the metaphysical, in a way that most people would never admit to. I have experienced that which is not of this plane. I have met my soul mate in my mind’s eye and we have shared the experiences of millennia.

I am a woman who is a product of a kind and loving universe, one that has provided adversity only as a means of challenging my complacency.

I am a woman whose life is a testament to my ability to find the good in everything. To have my cup always half full and to view the world through the eyes of Tigger.

I am a woman who is grateful for my ability to see things no one else can see. I have the ability to see reflections where others see none. I see depth where others see flat. I see hope where others see despair. I see magic where others see ordinary.

I am a woman whose gift is my perspective. My ability to make the world a brighter place for others, but at the very least for myself.

I am a woman who is insanely lucky. I have the ability to make my wishes a reality ~ especially if I concentrate and have the patience to calm my waters and truly respect my clarity of purpose without allowing my inner critic to distract me.

I am a woman who has the ability to inspire people. To take their vulnerable souls, scared and shy, and hold their hand, escorting them to the other side ~ the other side of magic.

I am a woman who is a gambler at heart, willing to take any risk, to put it out there as far as the limit is. I can be hesitant, but if pushed and giving myself permission, I can go all in and be happy with whatever hand I’m dealt.

I am a woman of strength, courage, truth and authenticity.

I am a woman who is the master of my own perspective, and when I remember that, my wings unfurl and I truly fly.

I am a woman with all the time in the world, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 52 weeks a year. The same as everyone else, truly, sufficient time to achieve everything I need to achieve, as long I remember to stop limiting my thoughts.

I am a woman filled with possibility, my mantra “what if” ~ not in distracting way, but in a motivating way.

I am a woman with a complexity of love, laughter and life. I am blessed, I am loved, and
I am exactly who I need to be.

I am a woman continuing on my pre-destiny at exactly the right place and time. I have released all my inner distractions and vibrate as one with the universe.

I am a woman with the ability to seek and provide. Clarity of purpose is a blessing as I know where I should be.

I am Strong
I am Courageous
I am Steady of Spirit
I am Filled with Hope
I am Complete with Love
I am Proud of Everything I am
I am a Woman.

A Thousand Tiny Lights
© Cynthia Booden Firth

Sparkling in the dark
Beautiful each by each
Together they string a magical image
Beyond what by day is strong yet bare
Stark yet beautiful
Ordinary, everyday, common and unremarkable.
By night, joining together, bring life to an otherwise
Unrecognizable shadow of
Just something ordinary
Alone each light has spark and is special
Together, they have a greater purpose.
As each of our souls has spark and a unique life
Strung together we are the start of something greater
I share my light with you
My hope is that together
We can light the path
For a better today
And the start of
An unbelievable tomorrow.

Lulu Street
© Eleanor Hildebrand Chornoboy

Elaine and I leaned towards the hot stovepipe, careful not to burn our ears as we strained to hear Gene Autry sing Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer. It must have been in the early 1950s because my sister and I still spent our days at home with Mommy. We lived in two rented rooms on the upstairs of a house on Lulu Street. We had moved to Winnipeg for the winter because Daddy worked at the meat packing plant. In the summer time he farmed and then we lived with Grandma and Grandpa, Auntie Anne, and Uncle Al and Uncle Pete. Uncle Al and Uncle Pete had fought in a war far, far away.

Elaine and I and Mommy and Daddy had to walk up creaky stairs squeezed between two yellowed walls to get to our rooms. The walls had lots of marks where Mommy said people had put their dirty hands and we could see dust bunnies hunkering in the corners of each step as we climbed up the thin stairs. One naked light bulb hung from a ceiling cord in the stairway. On the landing at the top of the stairs we could open two doors. One door opened to our rooms; one door opened to a door where big people who just spoke English lived. We only opened our door. A stovepipe jutting through the worn linoleum floor from the room below warmed our kitchen. A white but scratched and dented icebox standing against a wall kept our food cold. Every few days a strange man from Arctic Ice trudged up the staircase and plunked a giant ice cube into the top of the icebox. He carried the ice with tongs that looked like monster pliers that Grandpa Sawatzky used to pull our teeth when our teeth got loose in our mouths. A wooden table that had been painted many times teetered against a corner of the kitchen. It felt bumpy when I wiped it with Mommy’s dish cloth. After we ate, we had to push our chairs close to the table to make room for us to play.

When Mommy wanted to telephone Aunt Marge, she bundled Elaine and me up in our itchy parkas and pulled our ski pants over our brown checkered overalls she had sewn. We trundled to a telephone booth on the sidewalk. Elaine and I stood outside the frosty booth because it was too small to hold the three of us. It didn’t matter because Mommy left the door open. We could hear everything she said except when the streetcar with its long antennae connected to a line high as the houses, screeched by on steel tracks.

All four of us slept in the same room. Mommy and Daddy slept in a big bed and Elaine and I slept in a rollaway cot just the right size for one big person. We were small enough that we could each sleep at opposite ends of the cot. When Mommy woke up in the night to check if we were having sweet dreams, she looked for Elaine's face at one end of the cot. It was hidden under the thick quilt Grandma had made for us. Then Mommy shifted over to the other end of the bed and found my face nestled in the cozy comforter, dreaming about Santa Claus and his reindeers.

Elaine and I were afraid of those people who lived in the other rooms across from the tiny landing with the two doors at the top of the stairs. They were loud. Mommy never let us be noisy like that. It frightened us when their door was open and we saw a short table covered with drink bottles. We held our noses because the cigarette smoke puffing from between their lips made us cough and we held our ears so their yelling would be quieter. We did not know why they yelled in those English words we could not understand.

We had no radio but we were lucky because the people who lived below our kitchen did and we could hear the music from their radio traveling up through the stovepipe into our kitchen. When Mommy heard our favourite Christmas song sailing up the stovepipe, she called to us where we were feeding our dolls in the room with the beds, "Eleanor, Elaine, come quickly and listen." We scurried to where Mommy stood leaning her left ear towards the stovepipe. Usually only Daddy stood there listening to stuff about farming. We grinned at each other, feeling ever so special as we listened to the radio like Daddy did.

We got down on our knees like begging puppies and perked our ears to where the stovepipe poked through the pressed metal ring on the browned linoleum. We sang along to Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer in our few broken English phrases, as the sounds wafted up from the stand-on-the-floor radio below. “How does that little man inside the radio box know we love that song?” Elaine asked. “I don’t know,” I replied, “but it sure is nice that he played it just for us.”