The Ring

A couple of weeks back while at the cottage we had to move this dresser in my cabin to complete some electrical wiring. Hard work to be sure but from underneath the dresser I found a broken ring. After everyone looked at it, speculated about where it came from I put it in my bag. At one point (before we owned it) the cottage was a fishing lodge, so I imagined that some couple rented out my cabin and the young lady broke her ring, it fell under the dresser only to be discovered by me over 44 years later. The ring definitely wasn't gold but the stones looked real enough. As a side note when I got back to Toronto the ring wasn't in my bag. I turned my bag inside out and it was gone. I did find it on the floor of the cabin the next time I went to the cottage. So now I'm thinking that maybe it didn't want to leave the cottage, that some sad story was attached to the ring. Maybe upon finding out that the ring wasn't made from gold the young lady broke it in half and tossed it. Or maybe when the ring broke the relationship went through turbulent times ending with a divorce. Whatever the story, we took it in to a jewelry store and they appraised it. The stones are glass. The ring is essentially worthless.

End of Summer?

At the Ex it felt like you were scooping and cramming the sights into your eyeballs and your brain was calculating every item and stacking them in different piles of what to do and physically maneuvering the stroller took another part of the brain and body working together. Somehow it worked, I think. Quinton won a large purple snake that he named Mr. Slithers. He went on 2 rides by himself and was full of pride from accomplishing that task as well as going on an exciting fast jeep ride and car cop ride with small hills. We all were amazed at the gigantic, humungously long corn dog. I can't believe how crowded the Ex was this year.
Now to the cottage. It seems each time I went to the cottage, it was cold and as we were leaving the weather got better. We fixed and patched the roofs and it was mouse nests removal time. Dad stepped in between the boat & the dock and got a soaker. Thank goodness the water level is down. I will always be amazed when I look out the window and see a lake. At home it is usually a pack of cars parked out in front of the house.

Remember Me

I remembered a ditty that a "resident" used to sing. He would sing it when he was angry or frustrated and would say at the end "He barked like the old dog". He would also just sing that same ditty and smile and say, "She loves him". I can still see his great big ol' grin and his happy eyes. This person has since passed away and I often wonder who remembers him. Sometimes, the staff are the last people to have meaningful contact with the people we work for at the group home. What is the quality of that contact, after all we are paid to take care of our gang and it doesn't mean that we have to care about them? How do we pass on the memories, is it our job to do so and even if we do what meaning does it have? I guess telling stories both good and bad serves as reminders of that individual and how they impacted our lives. Maybe if we made a big enough footprint on this earth people would look and remember.

Work creeps in at the Cottage

There I was, my feet firmly dipped into the water and the inner protests started. I don’t want to go back to work. The endless paperwork, the new label for our guys (they went from clients to tenants, to consumers (I am glad that consumers didn’t stick because it sounded as if they consumed everything in their path including our souls) and now they are customers), the new pod business model (we are all interchangeable parts), going from Residential Counsellor III to Service Worker III (only three groups SWI, SWII, SWIII – no identifying distinctions within the groups), another work funeral, end of the month stuff and somewhere buried in all the revolutionary new way of working is the main reason to go back to work – the gang. The water gently laps on to the shore and the birds are singing not at all concerned about the what to do about the new med administration sheets. As the weekend draws to a close work seems to intrude more harshly with each passing moment. I try desperately to keep that inner calm and peace that the cottage brings but there is packing to finish and the long trip back.