The Top Ten List and the Reward...

I know I've mentioned my photography top ten list before, but for those of you that don't always have time to read the blog, every photographer I have ever met, has something of a top ten list. It's the top ten people you would like to photograph. I have one and have had to revise it every time I get one of those people or places on film. The original one I had squirreled away in my jewelry box for quite a few years was tattered and worn from reading and daydreaming and only recently, I have been able to make it a reality.

There are only a few notables left on my current list from my original list. One of course, had passed away long before I was in a position to get to India to photograph her. It was Mother Theresa. She will now be on the list at the top for all time as a reminder to never walk away from an opportunity when it's presented to you. That's a story for another time. 

The two other original names are Nelson Mandela and Fidel Castro. I may just get my opportunity yet. I have put in my paperwork for Fidel Castro's office and I'll keep you posted how that goes. Nelson Mandela  may be a bit trickier. I have friends looking into that avenue and hopefully we'll see some light on that soon. 

The original #1 on my list was of course, His Holiness, The XIVth Dalai Lama. After the two day assignments were over, I went to Tiffany's and bought myself a Tiffany's signature key. It was my reward for accomplishing my goal so swiftly and with little fuss. My experience with the RCMP gave me a little head start in that regard. I had already had security clearance done while in service so the process was quick for me. Take note anyone who has big names on their list, it's not that easy for everyone. It was streamlined for me as I had all the details in place for years, acquiring security clearance requires a lot of patience.

Back to the rewards part. As I mentioned, each major assignment that has lead me to reaching a photography goal is rewarded with something special. It's like a right of passage for me to manifest my dreams into reality and I feel this deserves a token to remind me of the work and preparation that goes into attaining these lofty goals. Some of the people on my list may not have any meaning or significance for the average reader, but their names and personalities may have touched my life at different times with something they said or did publicly that changed my way of thinking. I won't be specific about who they are for this reason alone, as I'm sure some of you would be surprised or looking at me cross eyed saying 'Huh?' or 'Really?' In just under the last 2 years, I have photographed one of my top 10 not just once but he has become one of my favorite clients and his staff are also part of my favorite team to work with. I just completed an assignment for him where a business associate of his, that became a recent addition to my list, was in attendance. Later in the evening, another female member of my list arrived and I photographed her as well. I noticed that most of my accomplishments in photography since I have been in Calgary, can be traced back to my favorite Top Ten client. Whether someone has seen the work I did for him and brought me onboard, or they heard I had worked for him and decided that was all the reference they needed. I wrote a note to thank him for all he has done, because sometimes, I think people don't realize how one little kindness can change a person's entire life as he has done for me.

With my portfolio of work I have done for him, and other's that have opened their doors to me because I photographed for him, I was recommended to get an assignment for Tiffany's of New York. Tiffany's has also been on my list for many years. At the end of the assignment, I was going to follow the tradition and buy something little from Tiffany's to celebrate my successful career moment. Tiffany's covered that for me and gave me a small pendant on a chain. It's an adorable trinket that I would have worn often and remembered the day with fondness. 

This June was my daughter's 22nd birthday. We went to a movie and celebrated quietly. I gave her this pendant, as much as it was my gift, I wanted her to have something that was a milestone marker for me. I though it was important that she see how I am realizing my dreams, even at this late stage in the game. That pendant is a symbol of what's possible if you just believe and make a plan to get where you want to go. I hope it serves her well and I hope she reaches for the stars everyday because she can. I hope she can look at that pendant and have gratitude for the path to get where she's going. I hope it reminds her to always express gratitude to the people that reach out to open doors for her as she makes her own milestones.

Don't forget to check your Compass!

Cole 

A Happy Father's Day story to all the Dads!

Growing up with Hippy parents was a blessing and a curse all rolled up together. We ate what we grew and raised. My sisters and I wore hand-me-down clothes. We walked a mile or two, and yes it was a mile, not a kilometer. Plywood floors, pumping fresh drinking water from the well out back, trudging 100 yards across the frozen lawn to the outhouse in sometimes 3 or 4 feet of fresh sticky snow, in the middle of the night. We did not have indoor plumbing, I think I've mentioned that before, and with 5 little girls running around and then as we got older... my poor Dad!

I was the last of 5 girls, I think they really were hoping for a boy. Once I was born, I think that was it for them. We were all expected to work as secretaries, or something similar, get married and have babies. Out of 5, only two of us ever married and had children. This is the difference between small town Canadian Hippy family to the bigger, more dramatic American Pop Culture versions. Have to say I was the shiny green apple in a basket full of sweet reds. This often was to the chagrin of my Father as he and I didn't see eye to eye for years. He was the pragmatist and I was the artist and the dreamer. I learned to adapt and make things work, even though I often had to compromise to make everyone else happy. I always saw the big picture and the next level. My family was not quite so broad thinking, and those that were, kept their silence and didn't know they had a voice too. I did what I was told but was doing it my own way, the result was often the same, the path was usually faster and more efficient though.

So the years go on, I do the babies and the marriage thing as was expected, but what I really wanted back then was to travel and see the world. Have adventures, learn new languages and cultures, experience life. I believe this was a product of my exposure to National Geographic, Wild Kingdom of Omaha, and especially Jacques Cousteau Undersea Adventures. (PS Dad made me watch those!) This was not acceptable from my family's point of view, so to appease everyone, I married a man that worked in the slick and dirty business of oil and gas. We traveled the world with the little ones in tow and I managed to see some of it while I was raising the kids internationally. I sort of made my Dad happy, but he really wasn't pleased about the kids being raised overseas. I was still the dreamer, and he was still the pragmatist. I don't believe he was ever proud of my accomplishments to that point. I was definitely the granny smith tart green apple then.

Last year, in February, we learned my Dad was really ill. He hid his discomfort from my sisters, who lived close by. When it was finally discovered, it was too late to do anything about it. His body was riddled with pockets of Cancer. I drove my children the three and a half hours North to see him, while he was in the hospital. Then the Doctors told my sisters that the Cancer was destroying his mind and fairly soon, he would not know us.

I made one last drive North alone to visit early one morning. When I arrived, he was sleeping quietly in his bed. The pain he may have felt in the night was etched in the lines on his face. He slept silently for 15 minutes and when he woke, he asked who all the friends were that I brought with me. We were alone in the room. It may have been his mind starting to falter, but then again when you're that close to the end, who knows what you see or feel.

For two hours, we talked about fun things from the days on our little hippy farm. Stooking the cut alfalfa in the field and riding on the top of the haystack wagon back to the barns. Hooking the old wooden sled to the back of the tractor and riding around the roads in the frosty white winters. (All without safety harness and helmets! Lol!) Building junk in his workshop. For those of you that don't know, my Dad's father built Grandfather clocks so my Dad's choice was to build harps. I have two full size Celtic Concerto harps in my living room, as well as a lovely old wooden Duesenberg toy car he built.  He was not pleased that I was a photographer. He felt it wasn't a valuable profession and I would never amount to much in that industry so I was bit surprised when he asked about my work, which he never did before. I told him about getting a contract in Central America, one in Seattle, a pending one in Europe for a bank at the time that never panned out. I finally told him about reaching my goal of photographing His Holiness, The XIVth Dalai Lama the September before. To this he crossed his long lanky arms to his chest and said, "The Dalai Lama!" . The comments from his mouth were witty and fresh and I won't repeat them, but as much as he made jokes and played it down, I could see the pride shining from behind his eyes. I had never witnessed that before and it was like a beacon of understanding to me. An instant peace settled over the room and we shared a moment that will last in my consciousness until I take my last breath. I finally understood who he was and he understood who I was.

The hospital kitchen was just sending up his lunch. I hugged my Dad and said goodbye for the last time. I told him I would not be back again. I knew he would not know me soon and in a few weeks he did not know any of us. He had always played the strong silent Dad and I now know he would never have wanted any of us to remember him as weak and helpless in a hospital bed. He passed away on April 26, 2010 and I flew out to Central America the next day. Dad never liked a lot of excess and emotions made him uncomfortable in the extreme so a big weeping dramatic funeral was not what he would have envisioned for himself. I stop by his graveside out in the sleepy little country cemetery every time when I go North, just to pay my respects, clear off his marker or pull out a few weeds.

I have no witty words of wisdom, no happy ending, and no prose for a smoothly worded Father's day card. The story should speak for itself.
To all you Dads, soon to be Dads, and future Dads, Happy Father's Day! Make it count each and everyday.
Don't forget to check your Compass!

Cole

The best job offer ever .....

I am working at the editing desk today, pushing a deadline for 4 pm and out of the blue I get a phone call. Now it's not from someone I know very well. In fact we met very briefly at a party in Central America last spring. This person goes on to tell me how he is looking for someone with my experience to manage the photography side of his little hotel chain in Central America. Now I have to say the description of "little' for this guy's hotel is laced with sarcasm. He owns most of the private luxury properties in Central and South America. For those of you that haven't had this experience, high end boutique hotels often have photographers on staff or on speed dial to cover celebrity guests, weddings and events on location for them. This saves so much time and money for them and the work is fabulous. Excellent remuneration, accommodation and meals paid for. It's really a sweet deal. If you work for a group of them, it's really quite the life.

So as he's talking, we get down to the bare bones of the conversation. I need time to travel elsewhere to get the pictures I really want and he wants me to travel throughout South and Central America to handle his other properties location work. There are still questions to be answered before I go forward.

When I asked him what made him decide to call , he had a tale to tell me. I photographed a young man and his family on the beach last year in a candid moment. I didn't know this man or his family, but they were playing volleyball on the beach and I had some great images of them laughing and enjoying themselves.

I remember the picture and how soft the lighting was, the waves were moving in, and taking over their volleyball game but they continued to play. A short wave and a long serve caught the ball and dragged it out so the teenagers had to swim to catch it. They returned to shore cheering the capture and strong swimming of the boys. With a heave ho and a shove, they piled on each other in the wet sand and another wave swooped in and soaked them all again. I was smiling as I watched their family game. I checked the images and this one stood out from the rest so I had to show them.
Me being me, I walked into their happy scene and showed them all the picture and collected the email address with promises to send it when I returned home.

When I arrived back in Canada, I had a few pressing assignments so I didn't edit the pictures right away. When I did finally send it down to them, the young lad was just very ill and they had no diagnosis. They brought him home to Canada and he was looked after right away. By Christmas time they finally knew what he had and were taking the necessary steps to help him fight the disease. I could hear the emotion pouring through the phone when he said they all, extended family included, often look at that picture I took because that's the last time everyone was really happy. The family I photographed was his nephew's.

He did a thorough background check on me and decided I was the one he wanted. The picture was some of my best work, and very lovely with 'late in the day' lighting. It wasn't just the picture, it was the fact that I sent it to a stranger, as a gift to remember this happy day without asking for anything in return. He said that anyone that would do this and share this compassionate and positive energy is someone he wants on his team.

I love my life here in Calgary, my friends, the city coming to life and being able to capture it in my lens is what I live for everyday. I can not dismiss his offer for this work very lightly. My head says to go where the money is to another culture, my heart is in love with Calgary and the friends I have here. Do I stay and continue down the path of starving artist?.... or do I jump at the opportunity and go back to living out of a suitcase and seeing the world again? ....

Hmmmm Don't forget to check your Compass!

Cole

My name is not Michelle ....

 When I was maybe 9 or 10, we moved from our quiet 'little house on the prairie'. No word of a lie, it looked exactly like the house from 'Little House on The Prairie'. The only difference was that the siding was flat red with white trim, not sun faded clapboard and my mother was an exceptional gardner. The area surrounding our house was full of flowers and blooming trees as far as the eye could see. The inside wasn't much different though and we had to pull water from the well out back.. but that's a whole other story.

 I had spent many years on the farm with my grandparents, aunts, and uncles and the rest of the time at our little house in the garden. Things were changing rapidly. From the safe, quietly insulated little farming community to to big city ( Edmonton had a whopping population of about 200,000 +/- ).  We first moved to my Grandparents city home in one of the upper class neighborhoods. (Mr. and Mrs Don Getty were our near neighbors).

 My first day in the new city school was interesting. Not only had I left Kansas without my little dog Toto, it was like a whole new planet. My little farm girl clothes were just not making the grade with the Big City kids. I was teased mercilessly about my hair, my boots, my jeans, and shirts. They may have been a practical choice on the farm, but not really stylin' for 1970 something Edmonton... the fashion mecca of the world apparently. I'd have to say this was a huge learning curve for me about human nature. I had no idea kids could be so mean. Bullying is a soft word compared to what I experienced at the hands of a few 9 year old Ghengis Khans. I'll skip the details because what they did will be in the book and I have to say, it will be a story not soon forgotten.

 The one thing that amused me the most was that people could not get my name right. I was admonished and scolded by the teachers for not answering when they called my name. I actually was sent to the principal's office because I did not respond when they did roll call in class. Let me backtrack a bit here. There was this girl at the school for maybe 2 or 3 years, and a few months before I moved to the area, she moved away. According to those in the know, she and I were exactly the same everything. Hair, eyes, height, etc. Her name was Michelle. I guess she must have been a bit of a bad ass, as she had a reputation for being in the principal's office a fair bit. I was called Michelle by everyone and had to live down this girl's attitude and reputation daily. After being there from January to June, I am sure I had a childhood version of post traumatic stress disorder. The teachers were ridiculous in their insistence at calling me Michelle and punishing me for not responding. Each time I tried to tell them that was not my name, I was sent to the principal's office. I tried to be diplomatic and not to get in trouble, so my voice became softer, my words were clear and precise. Between the teachers and the bullies (and their flock of sheep) it's a wonder I didn't lose it completely. My Mom was dealing with so much stuff at the time, I didn't want to add to her burden so I kept quiet about it all at home. Only at the end of the year did my homeroom teacher have a meeting with my Mom and found out what my problem was. Instead of sitting down and having a conversation with me about what she did, she came at me all angry and in my face, telling me I should have told her my parents divorced that January, I should have made her listen each time I was mistakenly called Michelle and I should have spoke up louder than I did. Not sure how much louder I could have been without being punished for yelling in class at the teacher.  I was never very sure how it ended up being my fault that they couldn't get my name right, but according to my teacher, it was.

We moved to a new neighborhood, a 10 minute bike ride away from my grandparent's city house, but in a different school district. On the first day of school, I was called Michelle by a few kids. This was creepy... I ended up in the principal's office because I didn't know what his little black book was for. He kept a little black book in his office and every time you ended up in his office, he wrote your name in the book. If he saw your name in there twice, you got the strap. My name was not in the book, but Michelle's name sure was. He ended up getting called away before he could strap me and the secretary hustled me out of there as quickly as she could. She was there the day my Mom registered me and she knew I was not Michelle. By this point, I'm thinking if I ever saw this Michelle, I may have to have a chat with her about her behavior.

Years go by, I went to private school and was home schooled. My music and photography were my majors of choice and managed to make it work for me. I had adjusted to city life but got back out to my friends and relative's in the country as often as possible. Things were going well. I was working in the Whyte Ave area of Edmonton at a club, trying to pay for school, and had many people call me Michelle. Once, someone stopped me and tried to make a joke about me (Michelle) picking up a tray in the club. I explained that they were mistaken and I was not Michelle. Having a second look through beer goggle eyes, the guy apologized and said I was definitely not Michelle but he had just seen her up in the back of the club. I actually dragged this drunken sod to the back to point her out to me, but through his pickled peepers, he couldn't have seen her if she was sitting on his lap.

The thread of this story is really about the bullying, not about the doppleganger Michelle. There is a cause I have just heard about through one of my favorite clients, called Dare To Care. It's about bullying in the school system. Something I experienced first hand. I will say this though. All the teasing, petty ridicule and plain cruelty I experienced as a kid, have made me a compassionate and caring adult. I work for my passion and never let anyone bully another. I raised my children to stand up for those who can not defend themselves, and I am not afraid to speak up for another who needs support and strength.


That's all for now.
Don't forget to check your Compass!
Cole

Laughter is the best medicine...

Growing up in a rural setting, one tends to have experiences that are not the average for the regular city kids. Here's one that always makes my Mom tear up with laughter whenever she has to tell it. I'm thinking from an adult perspective it seems quite a bit funnier than when I was 4.  At 4, this was serious business.

I'm playing outside on the lawn, we had a lawn that was a few acres back then so there was a lot of room. My Dad was home and working in the garage. Every so often I could hear a few interesting words and the sound of a wrench or a hammer falling on metal. I thought this would be a perfect time to go tell my Dad I was home and see what he was up to. Sometimes, Dad would give me a hammer, a box of nails, and point me in the direction of his scrap woodpile and tell me some random thing he decided it would be imperative that I build for him right away. Dad was no dummy. He knew how to keep me busy for hours.

I'm outside building a bridge for the duck pond we had yet to build, with 2" x 6" scrap bits of spruce... this bridge was going to take a while. When I look up from my intensive labors, my middle sister ( I have 4 older sisters ) is standing there glaring down like she has the most dire news to impart to me. She informs me that the ant bait in the little round can, just behind me is poison and if I touch it, I am taking a trip to "The Happy Hunting Grounds". That means dead for those of you not familiar with Bugs Bunny trivia. I give her my most annoyed look my four year old attitude can muster and continue on with my work. What seemed like a few hours later (but at 4 how long could that really have been, maybe 15 minutes?) I am bored with my task, I'm guessing Engineering was not in my future at this point, and I decide to hop across the double wide opening for the swinging barn doors on the garage. In the middle of aforementioned garage door threshold, is a 2 inch round can of ant bait. As I am swinging on the doors and jumping as far as my little four year old legs can carry me, my fingers lose their grip on the big wooden door and I slip. My tiny toes landed on the little can of death and as nimble as Baryshnikov, I leaped back on to the door and stole a glance at my Dad to see if he noticed. He was busy fighting with some contraption or another that he was building. My super brain started to digest the facts, I was swinging from the garage doors, probably that alone would be frowned upon by everyone for starters. I landed on the can of ant bait, granted it was only for a second and I was wearing socks, thick sturdy farm boots, and don't forget the really cool welding goggles that my Dad let me borrow... Lol! But still, I TOUCHED the can of ant bait. I quickly came to the conclusion that I was on my way to the happy hunting grounds. I must have turned 50 shades of white in a short amount of time as I dragged my dying feet across the yard and into the house to say goodbye to my Mom and wait for the end to come.  Would it be slow? Would it be fast? How will I know when I'm dead? All these things were playing through my head as I slowly took off my boots at the kitchen screen door, hugged my Mom while she was baking bread, and went to lie down on the sofa and wait for my last breath.

A short time went by and my Mom's  'spidey senses' were tingling that something was up so she felt a look was in order. She walks into the living room, and there I am. Lying on my back on the sofa, stiff as a board. The blanket my Great Aunty had knit tucked up tight under my little chin, my arms crossed solemnly across my sobbing chest. My face was white as a sheet, now Mom didn't know the story yet so she's wondering if I did something bad and am worried about getting in trouble.

She comes over to ask what I did and in my littlest voice, I burst into tears and strangled out that I was going to "The Happy Hunting Grounds" and then between broken sobs, a lot of sniffling, and questions, I managed to squeak out my story of the swinging on the doors, the ant bait, the happy hunting grounds, the slipping from the door onto the ant bait, ( might I add that even back then it was a childproof container). You would have had to  #1  shake it pretty seriously to get any of the bait to fall out of the teeny little holes made only for ants to crawl into. #2  you'd have to ingest a serious amount of the microscopic pellets to even get something more than a little upset stomach. So here I am totally destroyed by my perilous predicament, and my poor mother is trying to keep a straight face. At one point, I think she left the room to get some tissues for me and I could have sworn she was snorting while trying not to laugh too loud from the other room. Having already raised 4 curious and often precocious daughters, this must have been somewhat of 'old hat' for her. Maybe not quite so dramatic though.

I had totally forgotten that old story by the next day until one day, a few years back, my family was all together. My Mom decided she had to tell this story ( before she had the stroke ) She was laughing so hard in the retelling, she could barely get out the words. With everyone watching her laugh so hard, they of course started laughing too. Not so much from the story as Mom was quite hysterical, she was barely making sense, but from her enjoyment at the comical sight of 4 year old me with my arms crossed as if in my casket already. Eventually, when the laughter died down, and I crawled out from behind the sofa, everyone in the room had seriously exhausted themselves from the comedy routine and new stories were remembered and the retelling of those brought out more hilarity and jovial kinship. The bonds of family healed over laughter, old wounds cleansed of scarring by a new adulthood version of a child's folly. Seeing yourself as a child through your own adult eyes can be quite cathartic.

There are hundreds more stories and time to tell them all so don't forget to check your Compass!
Cole

New or Used....?

 I am currently shopping for a new vehicle. I have been driving my Dad's 1991 Jeep Comanche since April of last year.  I gave the last little pick-up truck to my daughter to drive and she, being the smart, sharp business mind I raised her to be, promptly sold it to her boyfriend for $2000.00.

The Comanche is barely stock, no radio, CD player, or Bluetooth. Manual transmission, bench vinyl seat, and plain white. It had 31,000 original km on it when I started driving it, it's been quite mechanically sound until recently. During one of our last snowstorms, I had to jump a snow bank out of my driveway to get to an assignment and I think I lost a chunk of the already thin exhaust pipes right up under the driver's side. This can't be good for the truck. It loses power going up hills, and is making the trip to my friend's shop on 16th a little tedious in the early morning hours.

I started looking in the last few weeks. I briefly thought about resurrecting my dream of a little black zippy sports car. My girlfriends all talk wistfully about the perfect little black dress and I am daydreaming of ripping up the mountain passes at ungodly speeds in my little black sports car. (while wearing my little black dress and stilettos. Lol!) I shopped around for something sporty for only a short time. I checked out a few older Porsche Boxters that were well cared for, a Pontiac Solstice, a few other convertible rocket ships, and then the practicality of the situation became evident. I needed a vehicle I could carry my gear in. The little zippy black sports car faded away into the mist waving it's windshield wipers goodbye as it zoomed away into the fog. (insert big mellow dramatic sigh here)

Hmmm, the practical vehicle. What should I choose? I had the big shiny SUV and loved it until it started falling apart after 4 solid years of hockey tournaments and ski races. Many friends suggested the Range Rover Sport as a suitable candidate, I smiled and politely reminded them of the current budget, then we quickly moved on to the next category. I toyed with the Ford Escape, the Nissan Pathfinder or Rogue, a VW Beetle, Golf, or Jetta. Then we touched on the Smart Car, the inevitable Toyotas, and even looked into older BMWs and Mercedes. What does one do when one is faced with so many choices? I called my insurance broker and asked what vehicle has the best insurance rates for a skilled driver, no accidents or speeding tickets, or demerits in 26 years of driving. I was schooled on the process by my agent. Did you know that the resale price of replacement parts is the first thing that is considered in the price of your insurance? Some car manufacturers prices are so outrageous that the insurance broker said quite plainly "don't even think about that one."

I now consider myself educated about these choices and am on the hunt for my slightly older new car. It isn't likely that it will be zippy or sporty, but hopefully, it will fit all my studio gear when I need to take it on assignment, both my kids when we need to go make the obligatory visit North to the family, and maybe a few friends for a day trip to hike in Kananaskis or Banff. I'd like to have one that will fit the kayak and gear when I feel the need to be on the river too, but maybe I'll settle for a decent roof rack. (umm I'm sure the Porsche Boxter is out of the running with that task anyway. Lol!)

I'll let you know what the final choice is, but don't wait up! This could take a while. Lol!

Don't forget to check your Compass!
Cole

Mom's day ...

I stepped out the front entryway of my big old red brick mansion, Van Morrison's Moondance on my Ipod, sun shining, birds chirping. Yes I can still hear the birds through my headphones. I don't crank the volume up to the roaring blaring white noise that would make my ears bleed. Just background music to pace my walk.

The walk I was taking was not a long one, but as I walked in time with the music, I had a lot to think about. My Mom tried to raise my 4 sisters and I with little or no help. I know how she felt, I did the same but only with 2. She must have felt some relief after we all grew up and moved away. No stress, fun with her friends, hanging with her boyfriend John every other weekend.

John, being John Wayne, yes THE John Wayne. My Mom is a western addict, and anything with John Wayne is watched as if it were the first time she ever saw it. I tease her and call him her boyfriend. This is always a great way to start a conversation with her these days.

Life was going really great. Kids were getting ready to be adults and start their own lives. I had put a deposit on a zippy little two seater sports car. A guilty pleasure after driving the big shiny black SUV full of Hockey and Ski gear all over the province. I was making plans to run my photography studio full time, take a few well deserved vacations, and spend more time doing things for me. I was ready for the freedom that comes with my kids growing up. Then the most unexpected thing happened...

My Mom had a major stroke and I sold or gave away everything I owned to go back home to look after her. Let go of the dream of driving my zippy little black sports car through the rockies as well. After her rehab, she stayed with me for quite sometime. We were blessed to have my Uncle agree to house us so we didn't have to worry about finding a place to be. He is a saint in my eyes for all his help.

When I first saw her after her stroke, she was unable to speak, eat, or move unassisted. They kept her in the Emergency ward for almost a full week I think. There was a moment, when they had to perform life saving procedure on her with one of my sisters and I gently shoved from the small curtained bed. In those tense moments, my life with my Mom flooded back on me like waves on the beach. Everything said, not said, experienced, and felt. In those moments, the time she may or may not have to spend with my kids seemed to be most important. She was a vibrant, active person one day, and weak and helpless the very next.

With my plans for my own life on hold, we did the best we could to keep her going. There were times when she was in recovery in the Heart and Stroke ward at the U of A Hospital when she seemed to give up. Depression came and went, and frequently rears it's ugly head even now. It's in these times when my family may have seen a side of me they didn't expect. I was the black sheep, the wanderer, the artist and it was here they saw the tough single Mom come out.

With everything I had been through, the Mom in me kicked in and when my Mom was feeling particularly down and unwilling to do the work to get better, I would ask her if she liked being stuck in the hospital bed, not allowed to even get up to dress herself. She said she hated it. So I got in her face and said "If you don't want to be here then start doing the exercises from physiotherapy so you can get up and walk out on your own two feet." That lit the fire and she pushed through the tough stuff.
With the help of my sisters and my uncle, I managed to keep pushing her to be independent. One time, she refused to get in the truck so I could get her to the doctor's appointment. She was having a major temper tantrum. I told her to get in the truck or I would pick her up and put her in there myself, and she didn't weigh much more than a 100 lbs after her stay in the hospital so she knew I meant it. She nearly burned my Uncle's house down a week or so after that making apple pies a little too soon after she was released from the hospital, but she can walk, she can talk, and today she lives in her own little apartment in a seniors building close to my sister.

Now I'm not going to shine you on with a miracle story here. There were complications from the stroke that are irreversible. She is partially blind in one eye, she has limited movement of her right side, so she no longer is the active person she used to be and she can not drive her car. She does however, still have her weekend trysts with her boyfriend John. The biggest transition for us all to get used to, she is no longer the smart mouthed, sharp witted woman who loved a good naughty joke, and lots of laughter. We can no longer ask Mom about gardening, sewing, children, or cooking questions. She does not remember. The Mom we knew is not there, but there is a new one in her place. She is about 13 years old and the roles are now reversed, she as the child and my sisters and I as the Mothers.

So my advice to you, call your Mom wherever she is, say a prayer if she is no longer, and remember that no matter what she is right now, she is the reason you are here. This I am grateful for.
Happy Mother's Day!

Cole
Don't forget to check your Compass!