My Big Fat Life: Municipal politics and the “Jack” effect

Published in the Fredericton Daily Gleaner, Monday, August 29, 2011

CLICK HERE FOR ORIGINAL ARTICLE

Some of the best memories I have of my father are tied to our ongoing conversations about politics.

For as long as I can remember, my father tried to teach me about the ways of the political world. But his teaching was skewed – he had blinders. He was a Conservative. For Dad, it didn’t matter what economic situation the country was in, he didn’t care who the leader was, and he definitely didn’t care who happened to be leading other parties – he was colourblind unless things were Tory blue.

Being the master of ‘challenge,’ I educated myself about the other candidates and leaders so I could challenge him.

The year he was dying of cancer and we had 1,900 kilometres between us, we had some of our best political discussions.

He was bed-ridden in his last months, and would call me often – at work, at home – for him it didn’t matter what I was doing – if a thought popped into his head about something we talked about the day before, he’d pick up the phone. I was ever so grateful for that.

The year was 2000, and we had lots to talk about. This was the year Stockwell Day took over the leadership of the Canadian Alliance Party (post Reform). It was also the year Rick Mercer got overwhelming support in his ‘referendum’ campaign to get Stockwell Day to change his name to Doris – making fun of Day’s proposal for referendum guidelines.

Jean Chrétien called a snap election that year – and in November led his party to yet another victory.

Missing the great debates: Theresa and her parents, Doug and Barb Blackburn. Easter, 1969

Dad and I had so much to discuss and debate. It was like the political gods shined down on us and knew we needed an interesting political year to close our lifetime of discussions.

I remember some big laughs – my father thought Day looked ridiculous when he arrived at a news conference in a wetsuit, on a JetSki – and sadness … Dad lamenting that he might never see the Conservatives rise again before he died; he felt they were the only ones who could ‘save the country.’

I’m glad he was gone before the election that November. I thought of him every minute of election night.

My father, from an early age, got involved in grassroots campaigns. Even though he often referred to CPAC as his ‘favourite channel’ and his conversations always seemed to gravitate toward federal politics, his passion was municipal politics.

“Municipal politics are the most important.”

He told me this time and time again.

My father worked on municipal campaigns most of his life. He dragged me along for the ride. Since about the age of 12, I would have ‘jobs’ in municipal campaigns in our district of, then, Halifax County. I answered phones, went door to door with candidates, distributed flyers and even did a stint as an election-night monitor when I was 18.

My father had a great respect for people who put their names forward for municipal positions.

I think his respect had a lot to do with why I ran for municipal office in Woodstock.

I also think my father’s passion for all things municipal has a lot to do with my respect for Jack Layton.

He started at the municipal level and connected with more people across this country as a federal leader because of his grassroots experience.

He worked in the political ‘trenches.’

I recently asked a man who was considering a run at provincial politics in this province why he hadn’t tried municipal politics first.

His answer: “Municipal politics is too much of a headache.”

He was referring to being stopped in grocery stores, called at home, and having to make difficult decisions that could upset his neighbours.

I wanted to say to him, “So you’re a coward? Is that it?” but held my tongue because my parents brought me up properly.

Jack wasn’t ‘afraid’ of the trenches. He honed his skills in the perfect place – a place where you have to foster a thick skin – a place where you get to truly know who you represent. A place where you can’t hide.

Maybe that’s why he connected with so many; maybe that’s why people are lamenting what could have been.

I also lament what could have been – but with regard to my Dad. I can envision the amazing and thoughtful discussions I would have had with my father had he lived to see the political coverage of Jack Layton’s death.

My Dad be gone 11 years this September.

Theresa Blackburn is a wife, mother and New Brunswick Community College instructor who lives and writes in Woodstock. You can email her at theresa@mybigfatlife.ca, or join her group, Big Fat Life, on Facebook.  You can also follow her on Twitter @MY_BIG_FAT_LIFE

My Big Fat Life: It is not how much you provide for your children, but WHAT you provide.

Published in the Fredericton Daily Gleaner Monday, March 7, 2011

CLICK HERE FOR THE ORIGINAL ARTICLE

Dec. 10, 1968. Snow fell in Lakeside and Beechville, Nova Scotia on that day and so did my grandfather.

George Blackburn collapsed while shovelling out my Aunt Helen’s car. He died the next day – my first birthday. I have known this story for as long as I can remember. As a young child, I had a morbid fascination with the fact. My grandfather died on my birthday … how odd … how different … how special?

In later years, when the moments would present themselves, I would ask my father about him. Sometimes it was about that fateful day, other times I prodded my dad with questions about what my grandfather was like – this man who, in photos, could have easily passed for my father’s older double.

At many early birthdays, when people told me to close my eyes and make a wish and blow out my candles, I’d whisper a silent prayer to my unknown Granddaddy. While everyone thought I was making a wish for something – a new bike, a boy to like me, cool jeans – I was talking to a man I never got to know – a man who died before I could remember his voice or the feel of his arms around me.

My grandfather was the head of a large family – a total of 17 children – 16 who lived. My grandfather was widowed once, and married twice – to sisters. He lived a hard life but never complained, working as a fish cutter in Halifax.

He raised most of his children in a one-bedroom house with an attic that acted as the second bedroom. There was no indoor bathroom, and for many years before they had a pump in the kitchen, the children had to fetch water from the nearby lake.

Poor doesn’t begin to describe their lives. But rich can also be used to describe it as well. There are beautiful stories of their father coming home from work on Fridays, loaded down with a feed of seafood. His children talk fondly of bedtime rituals and using old coats as extra layers on their beds to keep them warm.

There are laugh-yourself-off-your-chair funny stories, too. Tales of one child falling in the outhouse hole, someone sneaking chips into bed at night after lights out so they didn’t have to share their five-cent bag with two or six, or nine, other people.

My favourite story is the one where the hyper and excited kids on Christmas Eve can’t seem to fall asleep because of the excitement. My grandmother, while waiting for her little ones to set off to dreamland, falls asleep herself. That morning the kids wake to discover Santa didn’t come – yet.

There is even laughter in the harder memories – like the hauling of water in winter, breaking ice on the lake, trying not to slip in – or trudging through slush in winter, wearing leaky rubber boots lined with bread bags to keep their feet dry.

There is something about shared experiences and the distance from them that can sometimes allow memories to soften.

They may have been poor, but they were brought up properly. My grandfather couldn’t afford the nicest home, but my grandmother ensured it was the cleanest.

Her children went school with worn clothes, but they were always freshly washed and neatly patched. The family went to church and there are many stories of my aunts and uncles lending a helping hand to people in their community. Everyone knew the Blackburns because the family members were, despite their situation, upstanding members of their community.

Money could have made things a little easier, but I don’t think it could have made them better individuals.

Why am I telling you this?

Because as the years go by, slowly, one by one, these beautiful people are dying.

These wonderful, resilient individuals who came from nothing and now have everything are saying goodbye to us.

Some leave suddenly, others have suffered, but all have lived full and meaningful lives. All have raised their own children with the same standards, instilling the same values.

My Uncle Ronnie said goodbye this week. He wasn’t ready, but God was. That doesn’t make it any easier to lose him, but looking back at all he’s accomplished provides some comfort.

He was number seven of the 16. He had a quick smile and loved to dance. He was fiercely proud of his three children, Michael, Cara and Rhonda, and talked of them often – always with a big grin.

Uncle Ronnie was 69 when he died last week. To say he'll be missed is an understatement.

He adored his grandchildren – they were the reason he had a twinkle in his eyes. He was also blessed with a second chance at love after the sadness of divorce. In Johanne, he found his soul mate.

My Uncle Ronnie was a smart man – he knew a lot about this country because he travelled quite a bit of it as a short and long haul truck driver. We always had the best conversations at family gatherings.

I liked how he paid attention to things around him – to what was going on in the world, in our country, in our backyard.

He also loved to work. His favourite saying was, “Get ‘er done!”

Family members have heard him say many times that he never wanted to retire. And while his boss/his son in later years cut his hours because he was worried about his Dad working too hard, Ronnie never felt that was the case. He was a Blackburn – they can’t sit still! He loved to be busy and was happiest when he had purpose to his day.

He took sick on Sunday and died Monday. He was a young 69. How young? The weekend before Valentine’s Day, he went to a community dance with a few people, including some of his siblings.

My Aunt Helen said Uncle Ronnie danced for most of the night, and he and his wife Johanne stayed until the very end.

To say he’s going to be missed is an understatement, but the way he conducted his life is a testament to his upbringing.

It also serves as a beautiful example to his children and grandchildren.

His life and how he raised his family is proof that it isn’t how much you provide to your children, but what you provide them – a sense of purpose, a sense of community, satisfaction in a job well done, honesty and integrity, but also caring for others.

All lessons learned in the cleanest little poorhouse on the old Bay Road.

Theresa Blackburn is a wife, mother and New Brunswick Community College instructor who lives and writes in Woodstock. You can email her at theresa@mybigfatlife.ca, or join her group, Big Fat Life, on Facebook. You can also follow her on Twitter @MY_BIG_FAT_LIFE

My Big Fat Life this week: Remembering Dad exactly as he was…

Dad washing the sand off my feet, Queensland Beach, NS, circa 1972

Published in the Fredericton Daily Gleaner, Monday June 21st, 2010

In September my father will be dead 10 years. It’s hard to believe it’s been that long. Sadder still that as I write this, I remember how he never got to hold our Kathryn. He was gone nearly two years when she was born.

The old adage that ‘time heals all wounds’ is true for me.

Time has offered me a great gift. I no longer burst into tears at the thought of him, I no longer feel sadness when his name is mentioned, and I think I have a truer image of him now that I’ve had time to digest all that happened in his life, his illness and his death.

I loved my father, but a lot of times I didn’t like him a lot. He was opinionated and stubborn and could sometimes be rude. He liked to be right and liked to remind you when you were wrong. He didn’t like to sugarcoat things and oftentimes he was bossy.

But there was a sweet and funny side to him, too. He hated going anywhere without my mom. He loved babies. He would spontaneously grab you for a dance in the kitchen when a favourite song came on the radio. He used to shout and giggle when my mother would put her cold feet on him when they got into bed at night. He was the best whistler I knew, and turned into a little boy when he got dressed for a special event – asking Mom what tie went with what shirt.

He liked to play cards and when we were kids he’d let us win. He never said no when we asked for quarters for the store, and he always kissed my mother goodbye when he went to work … always … even if they were arguing.

I wanted to play guitar because he played guitar.

I loved how he knew everything about politics so I wanted to know everything about politics

He read the newspaper every day so I read the newspaper every day. And he knew everyone in our little community … and I tried to remember names of the people he introduced me to.

He volunteered his time to organizations, but also, more importantly, to individuals.

He was a godsend to a number of elderly people in his community. He shovelled walks and did yardwork. For a long time he helped one elderly man, Mr. Lewin, stay in his home. Dad made sure that when it rained, he was there to pump the water out of his basement. I loved him for that.

My dad and I shared a few little jokes too.

I’m adopted and don’t look like anyone in my family. Yet once, when I was visiting him at the fire hall, a man he knew stopped in to say hi and said something we found quite funny.

“Wow … does your daughter ever look like you, Doug.”

He was serious as he said it.

We gave each other a knowing look and Dad smiled widely. We giggled about his friend’s comments for years after.

Sometimes my dad would say things without thinking, turning something ordinary into a funny situation for my brother and me.

Once Dad brought us with him when he went to visit his brother at work. Our Uncle Dicky was employed with the local funeral home. Dad told us to go ‘kneel for a minute’ while he talked with our uncle.

Leonard and I had no clue who was in the casket. Weirdly, we weren’t scared, we just did as he said, said a little prayer and came back to the front of the funeral home to wait. I laugh about this until this day.

My dad was a firefighter for over 40 years. When I was no more than eight or so, we were at the station visiting and I snuck downstairs to the radio room.

I held my breath, pressed the button and then squeaked out the tiniest little “Hi” across the airwaves.

I ran upstairs just as the phone rang. It was the chief, Art Hindle, calling to tell my dad to get his daughter off the radio. I feigned innocence, and Dad winked at me. He knew what I had done but wasn’t upset.

In later years I helped him shop for my mom for birthdays, Christmases and for their 25th wedding anniversary.

And while he always complained about the prices of things, he never complained about spending money on her.

She received expensive sweaters and beautiful pearls and on their 25th year together, an anniversary ring with diamonds and sapphires, because he said the gems matched her eyes.

He knew her value and knew her love. And it was the same for her.

Sure he was impossible to live with most days, but she loved him. My mother always made Father’s Day special. I remember many of those days filled with feeds of lobster and special gifts – a lot of tools, if I remember things correctly.

My dad is gone, but he’s not forgotten, nor is he held on a pedestal. He was a hard man to love, but he had his good points too.

Time has afforded me the gift of remembering him just as he was … not just as I’d like to remember him.

I’d like to think he’d appreciate that.

Theresa Blackburn is a wife, mother and New Brunswick Community College instructor who lives and diets in Woodstock. You can email her at theresa@mybigfatlife.ca, or join her group, Big Fat Life, on Facebook. You can also follow her on twitter at My_Big_Fat_Life.

My Big Fat Life: Remembering a beautiful, wonderful little white lie…

Published Monday November 30th, 2009

In the fall of 1976 I remember having a teary conversation with my mother. I wanted a guitar for my birthday. My father played guitar and drums. He was in a band and when my parents had house parties, Dad always got his guitar out and played for his friends.

I always marveled at Dad’s skill. He was self-taught and could play pretty much every country song on the radio. I loved his voice, and always watched his fingers as he played. I fell in love with the guitar at a very early age.

One of my favorite pictures is that of my dad sitting in the kitchen playing his guitar, my baby brother in a little booster seat on the kitchen table and me in a little blow-up chair on the floor playing along with my plastic toy ukulele.

The night I cried over wanting a guitar, I remember my mom asking me a lot of questions.

She was worried about spending a lot of money on a musical instrument and lessons and wanted to know if I really wanted one, how often I’d practice and whether I would take care of such a special gift.

I remember the conversation happening before bed. I am not sure if my tears were because I was a tired 8½-year-old or if the waterworks were related to my being scared a guitar might not be in my future.

I had asked for one before and hadn’t gotten it. I remember feeling desperate. My dad’s guitar was huge and hard to handle for my little hands. I wasn’t allowed to ‘play’ with it unless he was right there.

In mid-December, when another birthday came and went without a guitar, I was upset but tried not to let it show. For the first – and, if I remember correctly, only time – I was allowed to have a birthday sleepover that year.

Five of my closest friends moved my bed to the corner of the room and slept on my floor that night. We were allowed to stay up late and have treats before bed.

My parents had made my birthday special even without the wanted gift and I was grateful … but still disappointed.

Closer to Christmas when my mother was out somewhere and I had just gone to bed, my father slipped out of the house to bring something in from the car. I was coming down the stairs to go to the bathroom and saw him come in with a large, triangular box.

“What’s in the box, dad?” I asked.

“Flowers for your mother” he said, not missing a beat.

“Don’t tell her,” he added.

I went to bed with a big grin on my face, happy that my mother was getting some special flowers from my dad for Christmas.

I was too young to over-analyze the moment. If I were a year or two older, I might have questioned how the flowers could survive until Christmas, why they were in a box, how my dad would be able to water them after he wrapped this special present, and why he chose a gift that dies after only a few days.

On Christmas morning I remember seeing the shape of the box leaning against the wall beside the tree.

My dad was going to surprise my mother with a beautiful box of flowers and I was so excited for her that I nearly burst. I have no idea what I imagined these flowers to be. I suspect my young mind was probably more concentrated on how my mother would react than what type of flowers were in the box.

In keeping my secret from my mother, I imagined my father to be one of the most romantic men in the world – hiding a special present from the woman he loved.

On Christmas morning, because I knew the large present was for my mother, I got right to work opening my own presents.

It wasn’t until all of my Christmas gifts were opened and I was playing with something or other that my mother went over and picked up the big triangular-shaped box.

I waited for her to open it and was shocked when she passed it to me. When I looked to my dad with my mouth gaping wide, he had a big grin on his face.

“You said it was for her?” I asked, incredulous.

“I lied,” he said.

I don’t remember what I said when I opened the box, I don’t remember if I screamed or cried, but I do remember how it made me feel.

I took the guitar out of its box and inspected it carefully. I remember touching the pick plate, running my hand behind the neck, and strumming the strings. It felt amazing to finally hold this perfectly sized guitar in my hands. It was not an expensive guitar – but to me it was priceless.

I took lessons for nearly five years.

When I outgrew my ‘youth-sized’ guitar, my parents bought me a very beautiful and very expensive Ibanez guitar.

And while that guitar has traveled with me to three provinces, has serenaded each of my children, and sounds better with each year that passes, it doesn’t hold a candle to my first little Christmas guitar.

Theresa Blackburn is a wife, mother and New Brunswick Community College instructor who lives and diets in Woodstock. You can email her at theresa@mybigfatlife.ca, or join her group, Big Fat Life, on Facebook.

An older article worth posting…..

Sometimes quiet lives can be the loudest teachers …

The first time I met John Wall, I had just gotten off the plane in Goose Bay, Labrador. It was February; I was cold, hungry and alone. His wife, my boss, Cindy Wall, met me at the airport. She brought me to her house for a lunch of soup and sandwiches before taking me to my own place.

The kids and Stephen were due to follow the next day.

John wasn’t much taller than I was and was as quiet as they come. At first I thought he was put out by me being there – but later understood his quiet nature; he wasn’t upset, he was just observing.

He was one of the few people I’ve met over the years who reminded me of my husband. He had a smile that lit up his face, and had this sneaky grin that let you know there was more to him than his quiet nature or his environmental work at the Goose Bay Air Base.

He loved Labrador almost as much as he loved his wife and kids. He spent a lot of time on the land, hunting, fishing, and just enjoying nature. That’s easy to do in “The Big Land.” Travel 20 minutes by boat or snowmobile and you’re in the middle of nowhere. And that’s just how John liked it.

He hounded his wife to come to the cabin regularly, and on a few occasions she followed, but roughing it wasn’t what she considered a good time.

So he went with his best friend Pete, allowing Cindy to do her thing, and that was OK by him.

He loved her enough to know he couldn’t change the way she felt about the cabin, and she loved him enough to know that escaping into the wilderness on a regular basis was something he needed to do.

John died this week of leukemia. He was only 53 years old. And while I haven’t seen him in three years, just knowing he’s not on this earth somehow makes this a lonelier place.

I’ve always believed we are here for a reason – that we all have a job. There are people put on this earth to enlighten, those who are here to heighten awareness, those who are leaders and followers. Some are here to teach and there are those who need to be taught.

John was put on this earth to remind us to take one day at a time, and breathe it in as you go. He never seemed to sweat the small stuff. I envied him for that.

He was as patient as they come, an old soul and a romantic one. I worked with his wife … so you get to know these things. There were the unannounced work visits where he’d whisk her off to lunch. There were roses on her birthday the year he was away – he had arranged it prior to his trip. She was surprised with diamond earrings one Christmas.

And there were the things that were only expressed in looks and glances.

He played drums and sang in a band in high school. At his high school reunion he and his band played.

During one of their Christmas parties I was at, they hauled out the tape of the dance and Cindy went and put her arms around him as they watched the footage. Throughout his playing the drums and singing Santana’s Black Magic Woman, you can hear classmates coming up to Cindy and asking if that was John and then commenting on how good he was playing.

Cindy beamed … because he was good … and because he was her man.

Sometimes we forget how good our spouses are at something – we overlook their talents because we’re always with them. It’s nice to be reminded of special gifts -especially when someone else notices. It can keep a flame flickering.

Cindy and John’s flame produced two children – Jessica and Jeffery. He doted on his kids, making sure they got to know his love of the land he called home.

His quiet nature made him a natural parent … loving, never pushy, and always patient.

I still remember the baby shower Cindy hosted after I had Kathryn. The women spent the evening in the den opening presents and gabbing, while John walked the floors with a fussy Kathryn, lulling her off to sleep. I took a picture of the two of them just before we left for the night. It’s a photo I’ll cherish.

I always had a soft spot for John, partly because he reminded me so much of my Stephen, and partly because I’m a sucker for a quiet person … sometimes it seems like I latch on to them.

My two best friends are quiet mice. My husband is quiet and shy. I think sometimes I’m attracted to the quiet ones because they possess qualities I’d love to have. Sadly, quiet and patient are two words not usually associated with Theresa Blackburn.

But I’ve always found it is the quiet ones that get to you … the ones who patiently listen, who always are willing to wait, who rarely complain and always are quick to help.

It’s the quiet ones who remind us to slow down and take in the scenery, to remember that living isn’t about how much or how often, but how deep. John was one of those quiet guys whose children are successful because he’s allowed them to spread their wings and become who they were destined to be.

As for Cindy, she’ll grieve, but she’ll never regret. They loved each other, and they both understood each other. She may long for him, but she’ll never long to know love.

John dying at the age of 53 is a horrible event, but having him on this earth for 53 years is something to cherish.

I think we all could learn a lot from a man like John. Sometimes loving someone doesn’t mean we have to change or smother them … sometimes the best love comes from letting something be … and enjoying things as they are.

***

Theresa Blackburn is a wife, mother and New Brunswick Community College instructor who lives and diets in Woodstock. You can email her at theresa@mybigfatlife.ca, or join her group, Big Fat Life, on Facebook.