SOME AFTERPARTY PETRO

TOP: Our festive holiday view of the falls in our sleepy little town
BOTTOM: Watching the sunset, waiting for my coworkers to arrive.
TAKEN: DECEMBER 15TH, 2023 

Last Friday, my husband and I rented a large AirBnB home overlooking the Bracebridge Falls, and hosted an afterparty for fourteen; which included the seven coworkers I am closest with and some of their life partners.

I was pleasantly surprised by the individual reactions I received as they walked through to the kitchen and spied the gaggle of Petro Canada glasses neatly lined up on the counter. There was one on display for each of us.

None of them readers of my electronic journal, I told my story of how my collection of over two hundred glasses came to be, then poured them a spot of holiday spirit.

I explained that whomever enters my home for the first time, always has to raise a glass and have a drink with my dad. Because my home couldn't sleep ten like the rental could, I brought my glasses to them -  as if they were entering my home for the very first time.

 As I told the story, one of the project managers I work with (who is the same age as Jukebox) Facetimed his parents so that they could meet me and hear my silly story about my glass collection. Similar in age, they remembered when my conversation pieces were all the rage. 

Then, as so many do, promised to keep an eye out for them in Southern Ontario and have their son deliver them to me. As it does whenever anyone offers to help grow my obsession, it warmed my heart.

As I reflect on the last year, I am grateful it has been exceptional. I think I finally have this work/travel life balance thing in check. I took the business to the next level at work AND I got to have a drink with my dad in some pretty cool places. 

Under the stars at the Bellagio fountains Las Vegas, in the sun on a beach in Jamaica, rockin' Broadway in downtown Nashville, and with fourteen work buddies overlooking the beautiful Bracebridge Falls. 

Life is really good!

And keeping my pops memory alive with my Petro Canada water glass collection is just an added bonus!!

A SERIOUS DRY SPELL

No matter what they look like, or where they are found, they're all truly appreciated.
(On the left, never used. The right, death by dishwasher.)
Left TAKEN: NOVEMBER 15th, 2021
Right TAKEN: NOVEMBER 19th, 2022

As you know, the term 'dry spell' usually references a type of drought (weather wise or even sexually). You know, a drawn out period of sorts.  So it is with great angst that I post that I am still recovering from my very own dry spell. 

Neither of which I just referenced, yet one ten times more serious, personally. I'm not joking. Can you believe that I just went a span of three hundred and seventy days (that's 3-7-0) without finding any of my beloved Petro Canada glasses? 

So, now that I am somewhat rehydrated and on the road to recovery, I am alerting the freaking electronic journal masses!

As I began to write today, I tried to remember when it was, after my dad died, that my husband found my very first glass. I know it was a loner, and it was from a Habitat Restore in an adjacent town. I would bet money that is was the spring of 2007.

I'm not exaggerating when I share that I remember how excited I was when he text me a photo with the caption 'look what I just found'. Also, that it was in that moment I realized if there was one, there had to be more; and my great journey began.

I could say I am embarrassed, yet I am in fact quite proud to admit that I have acquired glasses as far south as Toronto and as far north as North Bay. I am also proud to disclose that I have accumulated more than two hundred of these gems. All specifically the water goblet as shown above.

I need to go back and label all the post I have written so they appear when I am reflecting like I am today and go searching. That said, one of the most painful posts that reads light hearted, was posted Boxing Day 2014. 

Though not specifically shared in the post, our immediate family was estranged from our daughter. All because her mentally abusive and controlling boyfriend made her pick between him and her family, and we drew the short straw. 

A truly terrible time all around, I wrote 'Had A Drink With My Dad' about how I envision my day would have been spent, had my dad still been alive to spend the holidays with us. 

On that note, I guess you could say if it takes a village to raise a child, it also takes... A really strong readership and killer group of kickass Facebook friends, who've helped this cat collect some silly and outdated glasses for the purpose of being stored in bubble wrap.

So, thank you. All of you are a part of my ongoing journey.

MY HAPPY HAT

This past weekend produced some major heat warnings in Muskoka and the humidex rolled past a balmy 40C. With the UV rays off the chart, I kept my skin slathered in a 30 SPF waterproof sunscreen as I got in and out of the water all day Saturday.

How hot was it? It was so hot that I got to wear 'my happy hat'. Not to be confused with any one of my favourite hats, the specific hat shown here, has always brought me happiness.

Clocking in at more than 30 years of age (which must be at least a hundred and fifty-five in straw hat years) she was my dad’s favourite swimming hat he wore at his camp on Lake Temiscamang. 

She was relocated to a hat hook at our cottage on Orillia Lake after he passed more than fifteen years ago.

As I age, I can confirm 1000% that it is the small things that matter most.
TAKEN: AUGUST 6th, 2022

As I type, I recall all the photos taken of her over those years. Shots of dad in the water when the kids were little, then pics as tweens as they grew up here. Their friends partying, overnight cottage guests, my husband working along the shoreline; and for the very first time Saturday, me. 

As you can see, she has seen better hat days. Like all of us, she is beginning to succumb to the elements caused by the aging process. Her shape has changed, and what was once firm is no longer. In hindsight, I feel she was a tad taken for granted over the years, and now, as her straw weakens as each summer passes, like everything, we tend to cherish her even more.

I don’t know about you, but even with the VID on the way out, this year has been a bit of a shit show for me. I still haven’t processed that my best friend Smarite has died, and I truly wasn’t ready for our Puddin’ to head over the rainbow bridge as soon as she did. 

Though some aspects of my life are the best they have ever been, I feel there are specifics that may never heal - one particularly that my husband has declared ‘a last straw’ (no pun intended, and without any reference to this amazing hat... lol).

If the truth be told, I think that is why I keep my dad’s memory alive through reminders like my hundreds of Petro Canada glasses, his shoes that remain at my front door, and this silly straw hat. 

He was always my closest confidant, and having him near has always kept me going during trying times.

As my eyes fill with tears, I find it amazing how these items can bring forth a flood of emotions. Happiness, sadness, laughter and comfort.... Oh, and let's not forget security. 

Yup, all day Saturday, his favourite hat kept me safe yet again. From my having a sun stroke!

Thanks Poppa xoxo

N IS FOR NATURALLY

When you have the luxury of something and you decide to let it go, naturally you miss it. Some things more than others, yet I feel great childhood memories always linger and ultimately stay ingrained in us forever. 

Being the youngest of four, ideally I got to spend the most time at my Uncle Louis Camp on the beautiful shores of Lake Temiscaming. 

Built in the mid-fifties, the shelter was a mere 650 sq.ft. but the shoreline and property were perfect. It was never used very much, that was until I entered my 'tween' years and my parents began using it in the summer; rather than renting two weeks in the Ottawa Valley. 

I remember the day Auntie Andy took this photo. A great weekend and us so very happy.
Not quite pregnant with the twins... NOR had I discovered need for quality hair care products!
TAKEN: MAY 1991

They agreed (my dad and his eldest brother) that instead of paying rent, my dad would spend his time and money doing upgrades. A win-win for both - and when he passed, my uncle left the property and its contents to my dad.

My last couple of summers in high school, we lived there every weekend. 

The rents would pick me up at the rink in North Bay and we would head east across the border into Quebec.  (My mother’s brother had a camp next door and my father’s sister was just a wee bit further up the lake.)

I believe it was those amazing summers that helped shape me into who I am today. 

We always worked through the day as there was no television, and some Saturday nights there were at least ten of us playing a board game around Auntie's table next door. My mother was as fiercely competitive then, as I am today.  

Over those years, my cousins next door evolved into my sisters, and to this day I cherish all of their children, as I have watched them marry and raise their own families.

As an aside, we did offer to buy my dad out in the late 1990's (he was welcome to stay until he died) and he turned us down. Less than two months later, we bought in Muskoka. 

Just fifteen minutes from our home, we were blessed to offer our children the same shelter I had been given surrounded by loyal friends.  To this day, we still own it but that doesn't stop me from reminiscing. 

... About the first summer we had propane lights, the summer we hand drilled the well with a sledgehammer, or the first time I didn't have to jump in the lake because Poppa put an indoor shower in. Oh, and the fact that we conceived our children there.

All, such amazing and truly vibrant, life long memories! 

DINING AL FRESCO

In the midst of purchasing our current home, the lawyer called the day it was to close to let us know that the old shed in the backyard was encroaching on the neighbouring lot line. His professional opinion was that we should make the sellers move it. 

Being the superstar handyman my husband naturally boasts being, he instructed the deal to close announcing that he would gladly relocate the shed. Pictured in the photo background, I don’t think he’s opened the door since he moved our crap into it and that was almost twenty years ago!

Anyway, when my father stayed with us in his end of life hospice care the winter of 2005, he was quick to establish friendships with the local fauna including these photogenic furry tailed bandits. 

During his last housebound winter, he introduced an outdoor dining experience like no other - and by the time he left us that June, his newly established extended family understood what a glorious food source this happy go lucky chap turned out to be.

One of my many generations of  friends born the spring of 2020.
TAKEN: NOVEMBER 2020

Once I'd passed that mournful summer without my dad, I noticed not very many of his furry friends remained come autumn. The ones that did escape the owls and foxes were a small family of grey squirrels and they had build a beautiful drey for themselves high up in our back gully. Fifteen seasons later I have fed and nurtured many generations, and all have offered me great memories and wonderful friendships from a distance. 

Now back to the shed that was never moved but still needs to be... Each and every spring I  open its door to see what our six months of winter hath delivered. 

Not because there is anything in there worth salvaging but because I know in spring when others awake with a hungry belly, that ugly brown shed offers one of several escape locations of trust, offering quick easy ground access for all of my dining friends.

I don't think of it as a 'members only' condo unit per se, more an exclusive diners club that offers a covered option should it be raining when I ring that afternoon dinner bell.

...Signifying their dining al fresco restaurant is officially open for service!

DO YOU BELIEVE IN SIGNS?

Just like I do every long weekend, I watch the weather like a hawk to ensure I get at least one sunny day of rest. And by rest, I mean totally ignore the long list of things I need to do and willfully bask in the sunshine. Well, that day this Labour Day weekend was this past Saturday.

When the rain hit just before dawn Sunday morning my sleep was quickly interrupted. That, combined with the pups getting me up earlier than I would have liked, left me generally grumpy. Dark cloud over head, I greeted the day and the chores I wanted to tackle.

I knew I wanted to get some fall cottage cleaning done, so jacked full of caffeine, I decided to move around some furniture, which lead me to organizing the plethora of Trivial Pursuit board games I collect: which I rarely play anymore.

Anyway, I should probably preface that I got a somewhat unsettling text message around dinner time Saturday evening, which may or may not have led to my sleeplessness. In the end, for the twelve or so hours that followed, I kept asking myself… “What would Dad think I should do?”

As I continued the task of gathering my useless crap, I landed where the games have had their home since the cottage was purchased. When I opened the lid, all I could do was smile. Unexpectedly, my father was in the moment with me in spirit. You see, I had forgotten that he had made the toy box for my son’s birthday back in 1996 and left him a personal message using a wood soldering gun.

My dad always shows up when I least expect him.
(To protect my son's identity, I have covered his given name)
TAKEN: SEPTEMBER 2nd, 2018

As I pulled all the board games out of the box to reorganize, all I could think of was Jukebox in poppa’s livingroom, showing him all his all his slick Power Ranger moves and my dad pretending to be the villain Jukebox was ultimately trying to slay.

Just like that, the thought of them removed any & all grumpy stupidity, and I knew I’d ultimately made the right decision the night before. How about you? Do you believe in signs?... I most certainly do.

Grateful my father's presence reminds me that everything is going to be "better"!

My Father's Shoes...

I'm sure you'll agree that a great Fall cleaning is far more work than a thorough multi-tasked Spring one. As a result, I was beat when faced with an emotional ritual that has been a part of our home since the summer of 2005. The placing of my father's shoes.

Getting ready to celebrate the twins 13th Birthday...

Only eighteen days before he passed.

Taken: June 5th, 2005

I am so glad that my father spent his final six months in our home. The outpouring of love we all shared as a family is still talked about regularly all these years later. 

I am not sure if I've admitted that I never did share his prognosis with him, but in the end, it was me that entered the world of denial. 

I was convinced that under our care he would live forever. Silly I know, but it's how the process unfolded for me personally.

We all know the fate he eventually suffered, but since the day he died, I have kept his favourite pair of shoes on display at our front door.

His shoes quickly became a respected staple (a conversation piece) so to speak. Every time they suffered a fall from the landing, one of the kids would yell "MOM... the dog knocked Poppa's shoes off again!" His tan leather laced shoes welcomely became a part of our family.

To this day, I am grateful of my choice. 

You see, when my father's estate was settled, we had to purchased anything we wanted from the other siblings. It was like an auction per say. Before we ever started the initial purchase, we got to pick one single item that would be considered a "gift". I chose my father's favourite pair of shoes. 

I remember my brothers condescendingly asking me what I would want with a pair of shoes. My response was heartfelt and true. "When Dad left our home, he wasn't ready. It wasn't his time" I said. But for me now, the story is much bigger than the statement I made out of instinct that terrible day.... 

Today, like so many times before, when I held his shoes, I could still hear him saying Thank You.

I love that I am the one that was both chosen and blessed. Chosen by him to tie his very favourite pair of shoes... and blessed to still have them.

I love you Dad...

"I Miss You"

For those of you that don’t know me very well, I am a list person. My desk at work is filled with colourful Post-it notes of tasks I need to accomplish. Every Saturday & Sunday morning, over my only cup of coffee, I make a list.

My dad Herve wasn’t always a list person but became one after he retired. He approached his tasks a little differently than I but he was a list person just the same.  

I use to ask him... “Dad, when are you going to get around to doing so and so” and his standard reply was always… “Rhondi, I have a list. Everyday I look at my list and pick three things that I want to get done. If something shows up at the top that I don’t want to do, I don't do it. It goes to the bottom... I know it will eventually make its way up to the top again.”

I can hear him speaking the words. I miss him. I miss him every single day, which brings me to this mornings question. Why do we miss someone?

When it comes to my dad, the math is easy. He was my beacon (taught me to golf, ski, & fish). My personal confidant (even though I always knew he liked my husband better). And my life coach (yes maam, I can change a furnace filter with ease and I love to do the yard work). So I guess I’m not really talking about him per say.

There are people I miss on a daily basis. Some are near to me, and some far away from me, but I still miss them. It’s hard to express to someone that you miss them. It’s not an emotion easily verbalized. I suppose that's why I rarely say anything to the person I am missing.

I guess the best practice may be to just acknowledge the void as just that, a dulling pain that can’t be soothed. I'll just close my eyes, think of all the good I have experienced, smile and quietly keep my thoughts of angst to myself.

Now back to my list. Hmmm, what shall I prepare for dinner? I just wrote down chicken. 

The Voices in My Head Keep Singing Off Key

For those of you that know me, you know I love to sing. Because my blog is read by millions, for all of those that don’t know me, I am going to go on record with the fact that I love to sing.

I’m no pro and truth be told, as a kid my dad use to joke “Rhondi, sing solo…. So low we can’t hear you” (still makes me smile). Wondering why with such unconditional support I still sing?

It’s simple... Music as a whole is a really big part of who I am as a person. In the car, cleaning the house, reading a book, not to mention the fact that I can’t work without background music, speaks to my passion. 

No matter why, at the end of the day, I know I have only four good notes. Yep only four! I am an alto and a struggling one at that. I have to learn the harmony as the melody before the song to makes sense to me.

Loving to sing and being able to sing are two totally different lanes. Trust me. What’s the first and last rule of song? Know your limits! Guess that’s why since Sean has passed (and I have given up performing) my daily audience consists of the same 16 peeps.

Myself and the party of fifteen that I have going on in my head!