Real Conversation at Local Video Store:

The Mister: "Is Team America funny? Would you recommend it?"

Video Store Employee: "It's pretty funny. You won't like it if you're patriotic"

Me: "Pardon?"

VSE: "You won't like it if you're patriotic"

Me: "We're Canadian"

VSE: "I know"

Me: "We live in Canada"

VSE: "I know" (getting that "What is your problem?" look on her face)

The Mister (giving me "The Look"): "Leave her alone"

ARRRGGHHHH!!!

Farmers Granddaughter


From left to right: Uja Lazar, Uja Jovan, Ujina Ankica, Majka, Deda. Kneeling: Uja Mirko, my oldest cousin Danica.

Since I finally got around to scanning some old family photos, I thought I'd share some of them with you.
Cynical C pointed out once that all photos that came out of Eastern European countries until the 80's, looked like they were taken in the 1930's and he's right.
The above photo must have been taken around 1963 or so. I'd like to point out some things that I find amusing in this photo, and I've numbered them to make it easier.
1. Is Kobasice (sausages) hanging from the tree on the left. I guess getting ready to be put in the smoke house which would be behind the photographer.
2. Frozen clothes on the line. I distinctly remember stiff clothing being brought in from outdoors to thaw. Go figure what the point of that is.
3. Uja (yes, THE Uja as a youth) is holding a bottle of Slivovica (Plum Brandy-homemade hootch, probably 110 proof) and if you can see...the bottle is almost empty.
4. The apparent need for Eastern Europeans to take photos outdoors in the middle of winter. (More proof to follow)
5. My Dedas (Grandpa) subara (pronounced Shoo-bara) the Russian winter headgear of most men back in those days.


Here are my parents in Germany.
Again with the picture outside in the freezing cold.
Just look at my mothers clenched left fist and frozen hair.


Uja with Lassie, a Serbian dog who never saw the inside of the house.
Again with the outside, no coat winter photo.

There's plenty more where that came from....

Addendum:
Kiki sent me this link a Radenska Mineral Water commercial representing all the parts of the Former YU, which I thought was great. Have a look yourself. I still love a Radenska with a little blackberry syrup.

Taxi Story #1

A long time ago when I was single and traveled with a group of girls on weekends to clubs, before I could drive, I used to often depend on someone in the group for a ride home.
One Saturday night I was talked into going to a club way out in the East End with a promise that if I came, I would get a ride back home.
Well, when I was ready to go home, the girl who had promised me the ride home backed out, and tried to pawn me off on two guys she knew who were driving west.
I refused, for obvious reasons.
I’m not getting in a car with two guys I’ve never met before.
I don’t care if they’re wearing Boy Scout uniforms.
I was pissed.
I had $17 on me, and I was at least $24 away from home.
I hailed a cab, and told the Cab Driver that I only had $17 and to take me as far as he could. I figured I’d walk the rest of the way and freeze my ass off in my skimpy outfit and high heels.
The Cab Driver asked me about my situation, and it didn’t take much for me to spill how I was dumped by a “friend” who promised me a ride home and then left me on the other side of the city with no way home.
When I saw the meter go past $17, I said so to the driver.
He waved his hand and said to me in a heavy Chinese accent, “I drive you. I have daughter. I don’t want nothing happen to my daughter. I don’t want nothing happen to you”.

I was so grateful. I paid him the $17 and told him if he came back tomorrow, I would have the remaining owed money for him. He refused. Dismissing me with a wave of his hand as he shook his head.

Believe it or not, a few years later, I got into his cab again.
It took me a moment to recognize him. But, when I did, I asked him if he remembered me, and what he did for me that cold January night.
He said that he did.
When I got out of the cab, I tried to tip him $20, but again…he dismissed me with a wave of his hand, and was stern in telling me “no” he wouldn’t accept.
There are good people out there.
Doing good things for others.

Taxi Story #2

During the bombings of Serbia, during one ride, the driver asked me what my nationality was.
I told him.
He told me that he was Iranian.
Then he said with a tsk, and a head shake: “It’s your country’s turn to be persecuted”.

If you’re driving along the highway during rush hour and you look over to the car next to you and the woman in the car is crying, not sobbing, but you can see that the hot tears are streaming down her face.
Does your heart soften?
Do you wonder what could have happened to make her weep?
Do you wish that you could stop and comfort her?
Blanche DuBois might have had a point when she said that she could depend upon the kindness of strangers.
Strangers don’t have a connection to you.
You can tell them things that you couldn’t tell someone in your life circle.

When I looked over, my heart was full for her.
I don’t know her…
But, I have been her.
I am her.

I don’t know about you, but my car is sometimes my sanctuary.
It’s a place where I am alone with my thoughts, fears and insecurities.
It’s a place where I talk to myself in my head.
Sort things out, sometimes unpleasant things.
Sometimes I pray, and talk to God.
Beg for guidance…because this is truly a shitty place....and we all have hopes and wishes.

But, as the old adage says:
"If wishes were horses, beggars would ride"

I Love My Dentist



I know that this is a strange thing to say...because, let's face it; who loves their Dentist?

I do.

Let me clarify, I don't love the dental process, but what makes me keep my appointments is knowing that I'll see Noah, and we'll chat and catch up.
Many years ago, The Mister and I got a flyer through our Balliol Street apartment mail slot telling of a new Dentist in the area.
I hadn't been in a long time, even though I had a Dental plan and everything.

I hate the Dentist.
I've had bad experiences.

I made an appointment, and from there it's been a long relationship.
When we started out, he was a single guy just out of school...now, he's a married guy with 3 adorable children.
I could go on and on about how fair, loyal and decent he is.
Not to mention hilarious.

I would bore you.
I've told him over and over that I would never cheat on him with another Dentist.

If you are looking for a Dentist, I'm willing to share him with you...only because I care about you, gentle reader, and your dental health.

When we took this picture, (taken by the lovely and wonderful Anne) the first thing he said was, "This isn't going on your website is it?".
To which I replied, "It's advertising".

Noah Belman at Yonge and Eglinton.
Tell him I sent you and he'll tell you a good joke.

*couldn't you just squeeze his face?*

Epiphany

"Every man has a map in his heart of his own country, and the heart will never allow you to forget this map"
Alexander McCall Smith

When I was in my early twenties, I was floundering.
I didn't know what I wanted from life.
I had just come back from trying to live in NYC.

I was screwed up.
I was lost. I was between jobs when my mother offered me a trip with her to see family "back home". I jumped at the chance to leave again. To escape my own skin.

When we got to my Majkas (grandmother) house after the tears of reuniting, I asked where my Deda (grandfather) was. Majka said, "He's over at that no good Julishka's house", a place he went to drink and talk with old friends. She said, "Go get him and bring him back".
I stepped out onto the dusty Vojvodjanska road and stopped.
Where the hell was I going?
I hadn't been back since I was 14 years old.
I turned the corner, and suddenly I thought I might know my way.
As I walked, I felt an overwhelming feeling of belonging. I felt completed and peaceful somehow. Of all the places I'll ever go in my life, this was the place that I had started from.

When I turned the corner of Julishka's street I saw my Deda in the distance, sitting on a bench in front of Julishka's house. I recognized him immediately sitting between some of his old friends.

He stood up as I got closer, looked at me from the distance and then he spread his arms wide, and in that Vojvodjanska drawl he exclaimed, "Angel of mine....child of mine...."

These are the moments in a persons life that are never forgotten.
These are the moments that let you know that your soul belongs someplace.

That you are not lost.
You belong somewhere, to someone.

Babaroga and Other Lies
Serbian Parents Tell Their Kids...


Hristos Vaskrese to all who celebrate today.

We were over at my Ujas house today and as Turkish Coffee was being passed around, the conversation went to how drinking Turkish Coffee as a kid would either grow you a tail or a mustache.
These are things we were told as children to discourage us from wanting to drink it before we were old enough.
This led the conversation to other fibs we were told.

While we were on the topic of such things, I leaned over and said to mama:
"Hey Ma, didn't you buy me from some Gypsies at the Pijaca (open market)?".
Without skipping a beat, Mama replied:
"Ya, dey gaddet all kinda tings yu ken buy an da pijaca"

Tetka Ljuba laughed and threw in,
"I fall aff da gypsy karavan, dees iz hou my parents get me".

Yeah.
We're big on the gypsy theme in my family.

My cousin said that they were told by Uja that people by the name of Mr and Mrs Smith were constantly inquiring as to the price of his children, should he decide to sell them.
So, whenever they were misbehaving...
the idea of selling them to Mr and Mrs Smith would come up.

Babaroga was used to make sure little children were in their homes by dark.
In my little head, the breakdown of the name said everything.

Baba: Meaning old lady or grandma
Roga/Rogovi: Meaning horns

Which of course could only mean one thing:
Beelzebubs' Grandma....
and that can't be good for a little kid out after dark.
I asked "What ever happened to Babaroga? Is she still working?"
"Eh," says Uja, "She leave da town, bah she gonna kam bek ven mai grrls hev da keeds"

Ask me why I have trust issues.

Ain't that the truth.

The Scent of Your Past...

When I smell Lemon Pledge I am reminded of the Saturday mornings of my childhood, when all the windows would be opened on a spring day, and the house would be cleaned from top to bottom.

Scent is a strong memory trigger.

Have you ever smelled something, and stopped for a second to go back to a moment in your past?

Good or bad.

Profound, or inconsequential.

One summer, The Mister and I were at a cottage.
He was fishing off of the dock with a friend in the early evening, when the water is warm and the sun is setting on the lake.
I came down to the dock while he had his line cast. He was leaning back with a beer, just chillin'.
I leaned down and snuggled his neck and smelled the skin, sun and faint fishy scent of my childhood summers when all the men in my family smelled like that.
It was a good feeling.
A secure feeling.

A reminder of a time when there was nothing to worry about but playing, and being sent to bed too early.

When I smell Ponds Cold Cream I think of my mother at night as she hugged me when I was little, and thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

Chamomile reminds me of late evenings at my Grandparents home when family gathered to sit at the table outdoors until late into the evening.
Drinking, talking, arguing, laughing, teasing each other under the country moon, and grapevines my Deda lovingly tended.

Crickets chirping, and frogs jumping along the grass and cobblestones of the basta where the kitchen table stayed from May until the end of August, so that we wouldn’t miss one moment of the good weather.

Oh yes…scent can be a wonderful thing.

Touché



I illegally parked my car in front of a coffee shop to run in and get a coffee.
There is never any parking at this coffee shop because the ONE parking spot is generally taken by the person I assume to be the owner.

While in line, I noticed a police cruiser pull up behind my car and park.
In my head I thought, "shit".
Well, it's too late now.

The cop came in and stood behind me in line.
He said:
"Is that your silver Saturn over there?"
"Yes" says I.
"You know you're parked illegally, right?" says he.
"Yes, but I'm parked in front of you", says I.

He smiles and says:
"Touché"

That's a good start to a day.
No?


Addendum: Bad End to the Day
$110.00 ticket and 2 demerit points on the way home.
Fuck.

My Aim is True



I come from extremely modest circumstances.
I’m the child of a single, immigrant mother and grew up in Parkdale, considered dodgy if nothing else, nicknamed “Crackdale” because of its reputation.
The fact that I have come as far as I have makes me feel blessed.
I had all the needed components to fall, but lucky me.

That’s how I feel sometimes.
“Lucky me”

Once The Mister and I established ourselves in a home, and my stepchildren were old enough that they didn’t need to be monitored all of the time, I decided that because I was blessed, I should “give back” in some way.
I wanted to volunteer.
I searched for somewhere that I could help.
I eventually settled on Big Sisters of Canada.
It was surprising to me to find out that Big Sisters is not about young girls with no mothers…it’s about young girls in varying circumstances who need support in some way.

Young girls at risk.
Girls whose parents might be mentally or physically challenged.
Single moms who don’t have time or energy to go to the mall, or bake cookies with their daughters…much like my mother was.
I found that I as a young girl was the perfect candidate for Big Sisters, but back then, who knew about such things?

When I applied to Big Sisters, I was surprised to find that the screening of volunteers took almost 6 months.
I went to workshops, and orientations.
My caseworker Jean, came to my house and interviewed me for 3 hours.
She interviewed The Mister.
The Mister and my stepsons had to have police checks done (as did I).
During my interview, Jean implored that if I decide to make a commitment to a young girl that I follow through for at least 18 months, and if I wasn’t willing…to please pull out now and not disappoint and abandon whoever I was matched with.

Jean, I came to find out over the years is a wonderful woman with a big, fat, huge heart.

Then, the matching began…I went to meet and greets, and met many young girls waiting to meet one that I “clicked” with.
It was another few months before I met Tiffany, who taught me more than I could ever have her.
Tiffany became a friend, and a part of my life…not a “volunteer effort”.
A beautiful young girl, with an admirable resilience, and bubbly personality despite the personal doubts and circumstances.
One of the things that surprised me though, was the attitude of some family members.
It was assumed that I was using my spare time for “strangers” rather than spending every spare moment I had with my mother.
It was assumed by some that I was “longing for my own child” and that was why I was doing it.
I couldn't possibly be doing something altruistically.

The truth is that my aim was true.
I felt that I had finally stopped struggling with myself and was in a position to “give back to the community”, to “do some good”.

In the end, I gained more from my experience with Big Sisters than I gave.

Funny that.

(a Hiroki, but not my Hiroki)

Years ago, I had a little boy in my class by the name of Hiroki Tanaka.
I loved that little boy.
He was odd in a very lovable way.
Often he would come out with pearls of wisdom out of left field.
Like he was some old guy squished into a childs' body.
He had the way of speaking of a child who speaks another language at home..a very slight Japanese accent, and a way of phrasing his sentences so that you knew that English was not his first language, even though he was born in Canada.
Hiroki wore his pants hiked high around his waist and he was always pulling them up, showing three or four inches of socks while he did it.
A little Spock haircut and ready smile.

I loved that little kid.

Hiroki was a bit of a practical joker and I’ll always remember the times that he would hide only to jump out and scare me, and then he'd giggle and giggle.
He was successful (more than once) of scaring the shit out of me as he jumped out from behind a bookcase, or from under a table, or from his cubbie.

He was my Kato, I was his Inspector Clouseau.

One time I did him the same by hiding behind a door and then jumping out as he was coming in.
I surprised him.
Did he cry?
No.
He said,( in that cute little accent of his) “Mrs. M., you scared me….ALMOST TO DEATH!!!”
And promptly fell into a fit of giggles.
In the one panoramic photo the school took, he searched the crowd to find me and when he did, he hugged me with force and love.
The photographer snapped the photo at that moment.
I have that photo somewhere….

I think about Hiroki every so often.
He must be about 16 now.
Please still be extraordinary wherever you are.

The Freaks Come Out at Night



There are people walking amongst us who are not like you and me.
I don't mean in the "I'm special and unique" kind of way.
I mean in the "I'm the reincarnation of Napoleon, and John Lennon gives me instructions via the TV" kind of not like you and me.
I'm not making light of mental illness, because if you've got someone you care about suffering with it, it isn't all that funny...well, sometimes it can be...but you know what I mean.

It goes without saying that many homeless people suffer with mental illness, and if you live in a large city you've no doubt encountered someone in your daily travels who has either engaged you in amusing conversation, or hurled obscenities at you for no discernable reason.

This brings us to my story:
One summer evening, a long time ago, me and The Mister were waiting to see a movie at the Uptown Theatre on Yonge Street (pre-sudden cave in) and we decided to kill some time at the KFC a few doors south of the theatre.
While we were sitting together and talking , we noticed a disheveled, crazed looking guy staring at us from the street.
He came into the restaurant, walked directly to our table and stood staring at The Mister like he was looking at his long time nemesis.
Now, The Mister is not one to beat around the bush, and asked scruffy if he had a problem.
His reply was to lunge at The Mister and grab him by the throat sending everything on the table flying, including The Misters gold chain.
The next thing I know, The Mister and The Lunatic are fighting in the middle of the restaurant.
I scrounged around searching for The Misters' chain, and came up looking around only to find every single patron in the restaurant squeezed up against the counter, and the staff behind the counter with their backs pressed against the refrigerators.
I yelled for someone to call the police, but no one moved.
The Mister had The Lunatic against the front window, but The Lunatic had what looked like a death grip on The Misters throat.
Me, being someone who just can't stand around while someone I love is in what looked like peril...I moved in with a bunch of trays and started banging The Lunatic on the head with them.
Well, apparently I was in the way because The Mister yelled, "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!?...GET AWAY FROM HERE!!!"

A few moments later, some men came in off of the street and helped The Mister eject The Lunatic from the restaurant.
The Mister and I thanked the guys who helped and we sat down in a booth to collect ourselves.
It was then that the other patrons came over to ask if he was ok, and how they had "seen the whole thing", and how "the guy attacked for no reason", etc.
But, while it was happening, they were all cowering at the back of the restaurant like a bunch of cockroaches when the kitchen light is turned on.

On the way out, The Mister gave me a lecture on not ever jumping in if that ever happened again...suddenly, we heard a commotion.
We turned to see the same lunatic engaged in another scuffle about a block south.

I wondered if he survived the night or if he continued attacking people at random until someone beat him to death.

Language is a Living Thing

A while ago, I posted my favourite Serbian Phrases as well as my favourite Guyanese/West Indian Phrases and lots of you shared your favourites from other cultures. Oswyn (who is Trinidadian) from hey, I'm blogging here sent me a bunch of great Trini sayings...enjoy them like I did.

~"Cockroach doh have no business in fowl party"
(Stay out of matters that don’t concern you)

~"Every stale bread have he stale cheese"
(there’s someone for everybody)

~"He/she doh eat nice"
(to say a person is arrogant or formidable)

~"Basket doh hold water"
(all threats are idle)

~"You can't play sailor and 'fraid powder"
(In Trinidadian Carnival, people who dress up in sailor costumes carry around bottles of talcum powder and squeeze the contents into the air. The powder irritates some of course so this saying was appropriated for any circumstance in which you must face the consequences of your actions.
It's the Trini version of "If you don't like the heat, stay out of the kitchen"

~"Playing dead to catch Corbeau alive"
A Corbeau is a vulture. Some animals are known to play dead in order to catch one of these that comes too feed upon them. This therefore means to act stealthily to achieve something)

~"Moon does run until daylight catch up with him"
(People who do wrong will eventually meet justice)

~"Monkey know what tree to climb"
(People who are up to no good know who to interfere with)

~"All skin teeth eh laugh"
(In Trinidad, to “skin your teeth” means to laugh. So this means do not be deceived by friendly appearances. “eh” means not or isn’t)

Thanks Oswyn for all of them. I particularly like:
"Moon does run until daylight catch up with him"

Pevaj Ujko, Pevaj Rode
(warning: Sentimental post)

The above title is a Serbian wedding song.
Whenever I hear it, I think of my Ujko (Uncle, in the endearing vernacular).
I think about how important to me it was for my Uja to be at my wedding.
Since not only was I marrying out of my culture, I was marrying out of my race, yes it was very important to me.
Last year, one of the things I said I wanted to do was to tell my Uja how I felt about him before something happened to one of us.
However, I am afraid that I would never be able to do this without dissolving into a puddle of tears in his presence.
I know that my cousin occasionally shows him this blog, so perhaps he’ll read this privately. I know that in our family, emotions run so deep that discussion of feelings is a difficult thing. When I was younger, I used to criticize my elders for their lack of dealing with emotions…but now that I’m older, and actually have accumulated experiences and understand things a bit better; I understand.
In the end, I am just like them it seems.
Here goes:

Dear Uja,

Sometimes when I’m driving in my car alone, I think about how we’re all getting older, and how if anything ever happened to you I don’t know how I would manage and I cry.
I drive and cry.
Even as I write this, the mere thought brings tears streaming down my face.
In my younger days when you were an angry young man full of opinion, advice, demands and criticisms, I thought that you were behind the times.
Turns out you were right about almost everything.
When I didn’t want to hear, and I stopped coming to see you for a while so I wouldn’t have to, I always thought about you.
When Mama got sick, you held me up.
In the hospital when I was crying and they were pushing me around trying to get me to take her home while she laid on a gurney for two days in the emergency…you lost your temper and shouted at them to take care of her when I was too weak with fear and grief to do it.
And they listened.
And who wouldn’t?
When you get mad, there isn’t enough air in the room.
When we stood in the hospital parking lot and I told you that I didn’t know what I would have done without you, you told me that I wasn’t alone.
That I was your first child, and not to worry. That in this strangers land we only had each other and that as long as you were alive mama and I wouldn’t be alone.
You took the day shift, bribing the nurses with chocolates, fruit and flowers, and I took the night shift staying with mama into the late evening.
I am forever grateful.
Grateful for all the things that you have done for us.
For me.
Grateful for your acceptance.
When you asked me to work in the store on Saturdays, I jumped at the opportunity because you’ve never asked me for anything.
That year of Saturdays let me get to know you as a man, me as an adult.
Through our talks on those quiet afternoons we got closer than I ever thought we could be because you let me.
You let me cook for you.
You let me give back just a little tiny bit, not even close to what you deserve…but what can I give someone like you?
There isn’t enough for all you’ve done for me all of my life.
I was not your responsibility.
But you did.
And for that, I’m forever grateful.

Volim te moj Ujko, I love you,
Tvoja Radmila

Lenten Ponderings

When asked why he didn't fast during lent in the Orthodox tradition, Uja replied:

Translated from Serbian:
"Sin does not go into the mouth, it comes out of it".

How to Drive Me Crazy in 3 Easy Steps

Image via diyjoe.com

1.
If you hear an emergency vehicle's siren and every human comes to a stand still in an intersection except you...make sure you slow down and stop directly in front of the EMU and stare for a brief moment at the Paramedic before GETTING OUT OF THE FUCKING WAY.

2.
If you're looking for a parking spot, in a completely deserted parking lot, make sure that you have your bass turned up so that it shakes my car, and I can't hear my own radio over your music....and then PARK RIGHT NEXT TO ME, CLOSE ENOUGH SO THAT I HAVE TO SQUEEZE OUT OF THE DRIVERS SIDE TO GET OUT OF MY CAR.
Don't make eye contact.
Don't get out of your own car until you've:

a)checked your metrosexual eyebrows in your rearview, and run your baby
finger over both of them.
b) Checked your hair, and run your fingers through it a few times
c) Made sure that I'm far enough away

3.
If your child is screaming his head off in the bank.
Make sure that you:

a) Stand directly behind me
b) Pick him up so that he's directly at ear level
with me so that I can get the full effect of his blood curdling shrieking.

That's all for now.

Black Women Love Us

From time to time when The Mister and I are out and about, I lock eyes with a black woman who hates me just for being with him.
It's always disconcerting for me, since I'm never thinking:
"Hey, I'm married to a black guy!! I'm really stickin' it to those black women"
So it always bewilders me when I lock eyes with a woman of colour who looks at me with visible venom and hate.

This evening, The Mister and I were out for a Valentines dinner, when I happened to glance over at a black woman who was staring at me from across the room.
Her fixed eyes were filled with malice and disgust.
Then, she quickly looked away.
Which of course made me look at her regularly.
Everytime I turned to look at her.
She would lock eyes with me for a moment, with that same look of hatred, and then look away.
I mentioned it to The Mister, who usually smiles and waves at the person.
He didn't tonight though.
I think she scared him.
She was quite mean looking.

It's times like this when I wonder why it matters to anyone.
I know that to some, this is a naive question.
But really.
I don't care what white men do, and you won't catch me staring down some black woman out with her white husband.
I just don't have that kind of contempt or hate for other people.

I forget that there are issues and angers that people have with interracial relationsips.
Both black and white...

But it still surprises me when it happens.
We're not nearly as evolved as we think.

Are You Your Mothers' Favourite?



I marvel at the differences between siblings and the assumption that all of the children in a family are loved equally.

Some children kill themselves to please their parents, only to have all the attention and praise go to the wayward child in the family.

Some children work at being “the black sheep”, to make sure that they are nothing like any of the others in the house.

Some children are selfish and uncaring to their family, yet are kowtowed to by their parents in hopes that their behaviour gets better.

When I hear a parent say:
“I love all my children the same”,
I don't believe them.

I believe that people love their children differently, not necessarily equally.

Let’s face it….
Some people are just harder to love.

"...The Capilphanos' granddaughter living without her mother, Mr. Zipkin losing his job, and Mrs. Hennessy getting robbed. I sat there on the porch, with a cigarette and another glass of wine, listening to the crickets and the occasional car. It occurred to me that the quiet of the suburbs had nothing to do with peace".
Melissa Bank - The Girls Guide to Hunting and Fishing

Our neighbours are nice people.
Pardeep and Cala are a nice couple.
They are friendly and easy.
I leave cards in their mailbox wishing them a happy and healthy Diwali, and they bestow me with delicious Indian sweets in mine.
Our talks are corralled to the driveway and I've only been inside once, when Cala generously lent me a sari for a school unit on India one year.
I told her how beautiful, wonderful and graceful looking saris were, and how I longed to wear one.
She encouraged me, and offered one from her closet for me to keep.
I declined only because I know how expensive they can be and didn't want to take advantage of a gift that I would not have been able to pull off with the grace that women who grew up wearing them could give expression to.

It was with sadness and compassion that I came to know that Cala and their eldest son were bi-polar.
The eldest boy had his first episode after he was beaten at school by a gang of bullies in 11th grade.
Sometimes, I would stand on the landing and watch this boy in the winter shovelling snow by himself by moonlight late at night.
Pardeep said that he likes to be alone...and out in the night, in the snow, he always looked just like that - alone.

I felt for him.
A young man disconnected.

Pardeep told The Mister and I not to be alarmed if we saw the police at their home on occasion, and shared some of the life and things that he dealt with on a daily basis.

One morning Pardeep announced that he had had an aneurism and that he was now blind in his left eye.
"My headlight is out!" he exclaimed laughing.
Yet, every spring he marvels at The Misters garden and proclaims "the beauty and miracle of God, and nature".

And the police come.

And Pardeep takes care of his family.
And every dusk, I see Pardeep and Cala out for their evening stroll together, sometimes with their eldest.
Side by side.

And I watch for a moment from my step, and think to myself:

"This is a man worth his salt."