Jumping Over Potholes

Quel Mazzolin di fiori - traditional Alpini song

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NS38HgcJBaI

Most of you will not understand the words or the meaning behind this song. Hint: it's in Italian. :)

But even those who do understand the lyrics and be able to sing along as well may not get why I chose to use this song for this particular post. 

Stella Alpina - photograph of real thing
Folklore states that this flower is a gift to a
loved one as a promise of dedication.

Well, the Italian heritage is a good part of it but more importantly for me it is the symbol of a happy and simple time in my life where there was beauty and laughter. This is one of the songs that sparked my life long love affair with traditional Italian folk songs.

Not all rainbows and sunshine. For the one thing that was missing, was Dad (Dante). The wearer of the traditional Alpini hat and singer in the drunken choir at family gatherings. 

My mother took on the role of teaching us the language, traditions and songs of Dad's family. For although Mom was also Italian, she was from a different region. She embraced the family heritage and immersed us into it with family, friends and celebrations that made us feel a normal part of our world, despite Dad was not with us.

And that was my life. Two sisters (Sandra and Linda), a brother (Ron), a dog (Scamp) and a Mom (Livia) who was the glue that held us together. But it wasn't meant to stay that way. I wish I had known.

There was a lot I didn't know. 

1) The struggles Mom and Dad endured just to be together - their union was not approved by Mom's mother. They persisted and eloped on January 9th 1960. 

2) I didn't know that Nonna (Italian grandmother, Mom's mom) blamed Dad for killing her son. Dad died on February 17th 1964, in a horrific car/train accident that also claimed the life of his brother-in-law. He left behind a wife with 4 children ranging in age from 3 years to one month old.

3) I didn't know that the lawsuit that ensued lasted for

5 gruelling years and ended in a loss because of an incompetent lawyer. 

4) In 1969 as the last of the trial appeals were being exhausted and Mom tried to return to her profession as a teacher but was denied a position as the rules had changed and she now needed a university degree to go with her Teachers College certification. 

5) We were not well off financially and required assistance at times. I never questioned why sometimes our food came in boxes instead of grocery bags and included toys. 

6) I remember the day after Christmas 1972 when Mom discovered a lump on Ron's neck. Chaos ensued, there were a lot of hospital trips and suddenly Mom wasn't around much anymore. She was with her only son, enduring surgeries, treatments, diagnosis and endless sleepless nights dealing with the new reality in our life. Ron had Hodgkins Disease. Without cancer in the name, it was like the flu that he would get better. We never saw him at his worse. His treatment were in Rochester Minnesota at the Mayo Clinic. We were left behind and in the dark. We wouldn't have understood. We were kids too.

7) When Mom left to go to the Mayo Clinic without Ron we didn't know that it was a nervous breakdown - maybe more?  

But what I did know is that we were loved and we were valued. We could walk out of the house any day with our heads held high. Proud of our family, heritage and the Dad we didn't know. 

If the days weren't sunny, Mom turned on the light with her brightest and biggest smile and we knew it was going to be okay. Her laughter made the worst days seem a little less so. 

Like when I cut my foot and required stitches and she arranged a surprise party for me. Just family singing and laughing. When she got angry and chased us around the house with the wooden spoon until we were in a heap laughing. 

She hit a deer once on her way to Rochester for her own appointment and when she told us about it on the phone, she was laughing. I was so mad at her then but now I remember that laughter as a symbol of her character. She was okay. It could have been worse.

And it got a lot worse. On a day, like today, March 21st, 42 years ago it got a lot worse. She wasn't okay anymore. And my sweet, beautiful sisters wouldn't be either. 

It was March break, there was some snow on the ground. Ron had an appointment in Rochester. Mom turned it into a family trip. We left Thunder Bay late. We stopped for supper at Perkins in Duluth. We called Nonna to tell her where we were. 

An hour later, at 8:55pm, it was the end of life as I knew it. 

In the blink of an eye, the sky darkened like a solar eclipse that wouldn't quit. Mom was 34, Sandra was 13, Linda was 10. They would be no more. 

A truck driver (for unknown - to me - reasons) hit us from behind as we travelled down the interstate. The crash was spectacular and continued as we were pushed down the road for 250 feet before becoming airborne for an additional 80 feet and finally plunging 13 feet, taking a 180 turn to land on the roof of the car. The transport truck finally dislodged when we became airborne and landed on the other side of the divided highway. 

Seconds really. And then, Linda is crying and pleading for help. Mom tries to console and says "Don't breath". Sandra is silent. That is all.

A tugging on the sock of my foot. I crawl in that direction, leaving the inferno that had me mesmerised. My brother. A vision, standing there with one sock in his hand. We climb the embankment and watch the flames, not completely aware of what we are seeing. We speak. Maybe we don't. We rise to go back to get others. We are stopped and made to go into the police car. 

Racing to the hospital, we pray. Our prayers are not fulfilled.

In the hospital being treated for the injuries I suffered, I answered the question "Why". Mom died, because Dad wanted her to be with him. They loved each other so much and worked so hard to be together. Sandra died, because - well, you know how parents are with first-borns. Dad knew Sandra best and missed her. Linda died because she was only 1 month old when Dad died and he wanted to get to know her. 

That was my Mom's attitude coming through. Could be worse. I told myself, at least I had my brother. I wasn't alone. 

It took a long time to accept my new life, my fate. A lot of years wasted on anger. A lot of time fighting back against the hurt. Knowing "Why" doesn't mitigate the pain. It just means that the demons you fight are within you, because you have no one to blame. 

I thought I had it together but in reality I was punishing myself, denying myself a life I deserved. 

It wasn't easy, because while I managed to jump over some potholes, I fell into others. 

A little more broken and a lot more stubborn I crawled out again and again until finally an angel came into my life and made me realize that I am okay and I can make a difference. I can be proud of who I am again, I can be loved and I have love to give. And with that I found that my heart had love for another child. My blessings. 

It's been easier since that time to see that the dark cloud above me had some very bright stars in it shining down on me. Including, my brother Ron's - who joined them in 1984. I get now that darkness is okay, because it lets us appreciate the light of day. 

But a balance would be nice. 

The power of positive thinking kicks in and I am reminded that the first day of spring, while a sad day for me, is a day when we will see longer days with more sunshine and less dark. I need to remember that. Still.

Time does not heal. It makes remembering easier...sometimes. On a day like today I let the tears flow. 

Stella alpina
https://it.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leontopodium

Ron Sdraulig: Another Time Another Place - Part 2

Wouldn't It Be Good - Nik Kershaw

Ron Sdraulig March 1984

Ron Sdraulig: Another Time, Another Place

By: Gigi Sdraulig

Part Two

One-quarter mile north of Hinkley, Minnesota on Interstate 35, at 8:55 pm, we were rear-ended by a Geno’s Frozen Foods tractor-trailer. He rode up on the trunk of the car, causing the gas tank of our car to drag along the ground, explode and start on fire. We were pushed down the road for 250 feet, crossing into the left lane before becoming airborne for another 80 feet (and an estimated air speed of 60 mph) landing upside down on the opposite bank of the Grindstone River – 15 feet below the roadway. The transport truck came to rest partially on the riverbank and partially on the northbound roadway of the divided highway. I remember Mom telling us not to breath the thick smoke, Linda was pleading for help. Sandra was silent and I believe either thrown from the vehicle or dead from the impact. I remember staring at the flames to my left (through the rear windshield). I was dazed and didn’t know what had happened. I felt a tugging at my foot and then my sock came off. I was pulled at until I was able to squirm my way out of the mangled wreckage and was safely out.

Sandra watching over me, Ron and Linda 1973

 It was Ron. He had saved my life! We didn’t speak. The noise of the crackling fire was deafening. The heat was intense. We slowly made our way up the embankment a ways and stared at the burning car. Without speaking a word we both rose and were on our way back down to the car to get the others when the first Highway Patrolman came upon the scene. He wouldn’t let us any closer. Then reality hit and we cried for our family to come out. We were quickly ushered into the patrol car and were headed to the nearest hospital. On the way, word came over the police radio, that a woman had emerged from the car (that woman turned out to be Jenny). My brother and I cried, he suggested we pray that it was Mom. Through tears, I said that I couldn’t because my hands hurt. But will overcame pain and my severely burned hands went together in prayer. Mom would be okay, she just had to be. At the hospital and on the stretcher, the ER personnel started to cut off my clothes. I had no idea that I was injured – just my hands hurt – and I complained that I did not want my favourite jeans and sweatshirt ruined. In fact, I had suffered third plus degree burns to my hands, face, left arm and left leg. I was immediately transferred to Miller-Dwan Hospital’s Burn Unit back in Duluth. Torn clothing was of little consequence to those who knew my life was in the balance.

Waking up in that hospital bed, the first thing I saw was Ron, standing at my bedside. We talked about Mom, Sandra and Linda. I knew I had been transferred and so we surmised that they were alive but just more seriously injured and unable to make the trip to the second hospital where ever it was that we were. We believed we would be reunited soon. It didn’t happen that way. I got the “You’re a big girl…” talk from my Uncle (mom’s brother). They were all gone. My best friends, Sandra and Linda and my Mom. All gone to be with Dad.

Alone with my news, I cried like I never cried before. My world was completely shattered. I felt no physical pain but I felt my heart rise into my throat and fall into pieces like the tears streaming down my bandaged face. There was no way, that at that age I could attempt to comprehend the gravity of the situation. I didn’t know what it meant to have third degree burns and I certainly didn’t know how to deal with the sudden and devastating loss of nearly ever member of my family. I cried. I felt sorry for myself and I pleaded for answers. Why?  

Oddly enough, growing up believing that Dad was in Heaven with the angels helped me to deal with my plight. When I asked God “Why?” I got from within myself an answer that made sense. Mom and Dad were very much in love and went through a lot to be together – they missed each other, so she died so she could be reunited with her love. Sandra died because she was the oldest – you know how parents are about their first-born, Dad wanted her with him. And Linda, she died because she was the baby that Dad never knew and he wanted to get to know her. I didn’t like it, I was still angry but I felt like I understood why. That understanding allowed me to let go of some of the bitterness that I felt at the time. I didn’t want to be the one left. But I went further than that. Ron was not injured in the accident, save for minor burns on his ears and I decided that was because God had thanked him for saving my life by taking away his injuries, besides he had enough to deal with because of his cancer.                                            

Ron and I spent many hours as he sat at the foot of my bed just talking and trying to deal with it all. In the beginning my eyes were swollen and bandaged shut, so I didn’t so much see him as sensed his presence. In the relative seclusion of my hospital world, I was not confronted with the reality of life without Mom. Ron had returned to school promptly and was adjusting to our “new” life with Nonna and Nonno moving into our family home and assuming guardianship. An Aunt from Thunder Bay left her own two children in the care of her husband (my dad’s brother) and came to spend time with me. She made me laugh, she helped me heal, she told me I laughed just like my Mom. She reminded me of better times and helped me to see some hope for the future. After spending nearly three months in the hospital, I was released. I had to go back and face school friends as a totally different person. I was an orphan with a tragic past and I carried the scars of my life plainly for all to see. Generally, people were either kind or stayed away, but some hurt with comments and stares. I was accepted by most of my friends. Many didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t help them; I didn’t know what they could have said. What do you say to a 12-year-old orphan whose appearance you barely recognize any longer?

Being so visibly scarred by the accident was in some way therapeutic for me. I had to talk about it. All of my life people have asked what happened. I re-told the story so many times that I was often concerned that I sounded callous speaking so matter-of-factly about something so devastating. Dwelling in my sorrow was not my style. From the very beginning I found the silver lining in the dark clouds. I still had my brother. Although severely burned, it certainly could have been worse. And I did survive. Truth be told, just barely. Despite all the trauma we had endured, there was no mental after-care. There was no social workers who monitored the adjustment period. Ron and I were left to our own devices to cope in any way we were able. Unbeknownst to me, talking about it was the only therapy I would know.

For Ron it was different. No one knew that behind his mischievous grin lurked a boy in a lot of pain. Sadly, I was not there for him either. Ron and I were not particularly close before the accident. The four of us paired off. Linda and I (both very feminine) versus Sandra and Ron (both more sports orientated). Life was a great deal different with Nonna that with Mom. Nonna followed the old Italian school of beliefs that held that boys had more and different privileges from girls. Mom grew up this way (and from all accounts suffered because of it) and determinedly raised her children, girls and boys, equally. After 12 years of being raised “New-fashioned” it was not easy to conform to these odd rules. I rebelled and argued constantly. I am very strong-willed! To this day, I maintain that I basically raised myself in accordance with Moms’ ideas. All this open battling had a detrimental effect on Ron’s and my relationship. We had frequent arguments because he did not understand why I was being so difficult. At the time I couldn’t put it into words myself. He had everything he needed (including freedom for a boy his age) and could not understand my attitude.

Ron 1977

 He had everything he needed that is except his Mom. I had no idea of the internal turmoil that he dealt with daily. What child doesn’t want his Mom by his side when he is sick or hurting? He needed his Mom. Ron and Mom had developed a very close relationship during those long hours in doctors’ waiting areas and in hospital rooms. Ron knew things about Mom as a person, as a wife to Dad, as a single parent that no one else in the family did. But, his trips to Rochester continued on without Mom, Nonna took him now. He had more operations, chemotherapy, painful tests and the uncertainty that goes along with having a disease. In fact he had at least seven recurrences in the following 10 years. I remember the Shingles that he contracted when he was about 16 and we were told he was contagious and that we should stay away. I snuck into his room to keep him company anyway. This was the first time we discussed his mortality and he began to understand my civil unrest. He eventually landed in a local hospital to rid his body of this infection. This was also the first time that I visited my own brother in the hospital and sat at the foot of his bed as he had so often done with me. Just talking.

 Ron and I developed a relationship with a very special family that essentially took us on as their own. They were Bobbi and Gord Law and their children, Kerri and Craig. Gord was Ron’s sixth grade teacher at the time of the accident. While I was still in hospital, Gord took it upon himself to drive Ron to Duluth to visit me. Things progressed and soon we began to tag along on their family outings. We went camping, biking, skiing, even celebrated birthdays as a family. We did the little family things together too. Shopping, BBQ’s, playing board games, watching TV, hanging out, sharing dreams and even arguing. In many ways, Bobbi and Gord became surrogate parents. I can’t imagine life without them, even today.

Ron and I in Thunder Bay

I moved out of the house two weeks after my 18^th birthday. It was a good time for me. I could finally live my own life. I remained rebellious but level-headed (sort-of). I got a job in the kitchen of a Nuns’ residence, while I contemplated my career choices. Ron visited often and although he did not approve of my relationships, he was supportive. And he finally fully understood my dissatisfaction at home. I went on to college just outside of Toronto. I had decided on Early Childhood Education because I did not want to raise my kids the way my grandmother parented me, I wanted to learn how to do it right. I was afraid I would follow the destructive model of my own later life. Ron stayed in Thunder Bay and spent some time at Lakehead University. He loved the excitement and opportunities available in the Toronto area so he visited frequently and stayed with me (much to the chagrin of Nonna, who hated his being away from her). And hated his being with me more!

  

Ron Sdraulig: Another Time Another Place - Part 1

And Now the Waltz (C'est La Vie) - Slade

This is a story I wrote a very long time ago and I am ready to share it now to coincide with the 30th anniversary of my brother's passing, June 4th, 1984. 

Ron Sdraulig: Another Time, Another Place

Ron Sdraulig March 1984

By: Gigi Sdraulig

“Another time, another place.  We’ll be together again.”

from: And Now the Waltz (C’est La Vie) by Slade 1984

This is about a young man who had the courage to save the life of someone else but could not save his own. This is about the bravest person I have ever known. This is about my brother, Ron Sdraulig.

Thursday, March 21st, 1974.  It was the middle of the school March Break and in Thunder Bay, Ontario there was snow on the ground still.  The roads were clear and the weather was warming.  We were taking a family trip-Mom (Livia, 32), Sandra (13), myself (Gigi, 12), Ron (11) and Linda (10).  Although I am not sure why, on this occasion we had an extra passenger: Mom's friend Jenny.  I am not sure how this came about because Jenny was not one of my Mom’s closest friends. In fact, I still know very little about her. Maybe just the adult company, for Jenny never took the wheel to drive.

Linda, Sandra and I holding onto Ron

Mom had planned to get away early in the morning for the eight-hour drive to Minneapolis and then on to Rochester, Minnesota, but it was almost noon before we left the house. My Mom was notoriously late, she had the best of intentions but I think there was just too much on her mind and she often forget. She forgot appointments, things she had to do, where she put her car keys. We were late for everything – that’s just the way it was. Mom would have benefited greatly from writing herself reminders – if she could remember where she left her lists. She was also very fastidious and the house had to be neat and tidy before we left, so that when we returned we would enjoy it rather than worry about having to clean. After a long trip we could come home and relax.                 
        So even though we left late from the house, Mom still had a few errands to run and we had to make a quick stop to switch cars with Nonno (our grandfather). We took his 1966 Pontiac and left him the loaner we had. Mom had hit a deer on a previous trip stateside and our old Meteor was being repaired. Then we were off on what I considered to be an adventure despite the fact that we had made this very trip on a fairly regular basis. Mom's brother and his family lived in a Minneapolis suburb, so we got to visit our cousins, but the primary reason for the trips was cancer treatment and check ups for Ron, who had Hodgkins Disease.

It was Boxing Day 1972, just before his 9th birthday, when Mom first noticed the large egg shaped lump on his neck.  As children, we knew he was sick but cancer wasn’t so commonplace back then, and we did not associate death with his having to go to the hospital all the time.  We did not experience his hospital stays or his pain, because all his treatment occurred at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester. We stayed home with various caregivers.  We went as a family only for check-ups that fell on school breaks, as it was on this March day.

Dante and Livia Sdraulig Jan. 8, 1960

Mom was a great mother, who amidst chaos and uncertainty, made us feel as though we were a normal family.  But we weren't.  We had no Dad, Mom was widowed.  When forms came home from school asking for Dads' occupation and we matter-of-factly wrote - Deceased - almost as if that was his occupation.  We didn't know him to miss him.  Dad (Dante) died, along with Mom’s brother, Feruccio (Frank) Babudro, in a car-train collision on February 17, 1964. Mom was a strong woman who coped in the face of adversity far better than anyone I know could. At the time of his death, Dad had been building the family home with the help of Feruccio, and they were going to the lumberyard for supplies. They were broadsided by a train at a dangerous crossing in the middle of the day. They didn’t have a chance. Mom was left heart-broken and grieving with four young children and a partially built homestead. Sandra was the oldest at 3 ½ years of age; Linda, the youngest, was just 5 weeks old. There was an ensuing lawsuit that went all the way to the Supreme Court and did not provide much for the effort. So without a breadwinner, Mom struggled financially. The local school board eventually ousted mom, a teacher by profession, when she was unable to return to university for her Bachelors Degree-required since her graduation from North Bay Teachers College. After that she took a variety of jobs to support her family and at one point, I believe, social assistance.

My mom’s parents were a very big part of our lives – my paternal grandparents were still in Italy. What I didn’t realize then, was that her parents were both a source of comfort and anxiety and stress at the same time. We often heard Mom and Nonna (grandmother) arguing, and once I asked why they fought so much. “Because we love each other” is the answer I got. Love, it seems now had very little to do with it. Nonna didn’t approve of my dad’s side of the family and the marriage…and us children? She also blamed my father for the accident that killed both him and her son. As a matter of fact, it seems that Nonna approved of very little that my Mom did. There certainly was a one-sidedness when it came to the parents supporting the remaining son and daughter. The son, his wife and family wanted for nothing. It is just another testament to the strength and courage of my Mother that she obviously passed on to her children. Strong, honourable character.

With the last of the errands completed, we crossed the set of railroad tracks where I mistakenly believed my dad was killed. Perhaps because of the pain it caused her, perhaps because we never asked, but Mom never really talked about Dad. I knew nothing of his personality, his height, his character, his likes, dislikes, habits, hobbies. One framed picture was on the bookshelf. The same picture that adorned his mausoleum.  I knew how he died and that my parents were in love. That’s about it. We visited his final resting place often but never went to the scene of his death. So the tracks that intersected Thunder Bay between the twinned cities of Port Arthur and Fort William were not were my Dad breathed his last breath. Instead, the crossing was nearer the Port Arthur waterfront on Clavet Street.

All together!
Linda, Mom, me, Ron, Sandra

Spirits were high and excitement building with chatter of fun to come when the song “Photograph” by Ringo Starr came on the radio. It was one of Sandra’s favourites and a lively discussion ensued about everyone else’s favourites. Mom’s was “I Am Woman” by Helen Reddy; Linda’s was “Time in a Bottle” by Jim Croce. I, like Ron, could not pinpoint any one favourite. I liked too many.  To this day hearing those songs evokes a rush of emotions. Both sad and comforting but mostly hurt. Music was always important in all our lives. The stereo was a more prized possession than the TV. Of course, that was in part due to the fact that my dad built the stereo cabinet and put together (possibly with help from my Uncle who died with him) the interior components complete with the old tubes. No electronics back then. Many nights we would sit by the stereo as a family, listening to the Top 10 hits of the day on CKPR radio and then trying to be the first to call the radio station with the names of all ten in hopes of winning. I don’t remember the prize, or even winning. But I do remember the excitement of playing the game. Rewards and treats came in the form of new albums or 45’s. I still own the first 45 I ever earned. It cost $.33 in 1971 and was Day After Day by Badfinger. We all learned to play the piano and had aspirations to expand our musical abilities with other instruments. Singing as a family was another activity we enjoyed together, there was a host of traditional Italian songs that we learned (and I still remember), but there was one that came to impact my life in later years for reasons I have never really understood. The song was “Farewell to Nova Scotia” and I did not know what if any importance there was in that song for her. Perhaps it was because Nova Scotia and Halifax were the first things she saw in Canada when she came through the gates at Pier 21 as a pre-teen girl leaving her homeland. Perhaps she had hopes of one day returning for a visit. I’ll never know.

It was getting dark when we stopped at a Perkins Restaurant in Duluth, Minnesota for supper. With four hungry bellies whining, it probably wasn’t that late at night but the daylight hours are significantly shorter in the winter months. Perkins was a real treat because we liked the food, Mom liked the prices and we could only go when we were in the States. Downstairs, near the washrooms, we found a telephone and called Nonna to tell her all was well. Nonna was concerned with the darkness of the hour and the journey ahead. Mom assured her we would be fine, she was not at all tired. We only had another four hours or so to go, mostly on divided highway and with good road conditions. Mom was also very accustomed to this journey, having done it so often before.

            We didn’t make the rest of the trip. 

Under the Dirt Sky

Wreck On The Highway - Bruce Springsteen

Remembering: 

Dante Sdraulig (my dad)

Livia Sdraulig (my Mom)

Sandra Sdraulig (my sister)

Ron Sdraulig (my brother)

Linda Sdraulig (my sister)

Recently the concept of justice and deservedness (is that even a word) seems to come up an awful lot in the course of casual conversation. If I wanted to fight for justice or what I deserved I would have to look back some 40 odd years or even more to bitch and complain about an injustice that is unparallelled and can never be corrected. The day my life as I knew it changed forever - the day my mother and sisters died. Today is the anniversary of that event, March 21st, 1974.


My dad dying was equally life-changing but not in a way that I can comprehend. I was way too young and although I understand that life would have been different with two parents in the house, I don't know what that means. It was even more so different for us because of the circumstances of my Dad's death. Trying to get justice and avenge his death meant that my Mother was embroiled in a lengthy and costly lawsuit that consumed much of her time and a lot of her mentally. As my Dad was laid to rest in Peace so too did my Mom want peace. But it was elusive and came at what ultimately was too high a cost. For years she fought the system. She fought and clawed her way to the Supreme Court of Canada. But she fought for nothing. She put her faith in the support system she had behind her. Her parents and worst of all the professionals. The lawyer - Alfred PETRONE and his antics worthy of a place in the Cartoon Hall of Fame (as opposed to the Halls of Justice) lost the law suit for my mother. In punishing the unprofessionalism of the lawyer, the judge in fact punished my family. A lifetime of struggles ensued, including financial hardships. I get it, the quest for justice consumes your life. I get it, I am there. I can't calculate the cost I have paid in physical property, and mental stability. And I have my mothers legacy to draw strength from. She didn't have that luxury. 


So, what if Dad was around - most assuredly, he would have been an emotional support to Mom and a financial one as well. I raised children as a single parent without financial or emotional support also and I know it isn't easy. But, Mom had a career that by all accounts should have afforded her a lifestyle of some comfort. She was an educated professional and graduate of North Bay Teachers College. To be fair, I don't know all the details of her employment. Was she working full time or part time? With the Catholic Board or the public Board? But I know they screwed her. This much I understand to be true. Mom was working and at some point requested a leave to return to university and obtain the now necessary Bachelors Degree to maintain her credentials. Many teachers at the time, continued working while taking a course or two during the school year and doing some upgrading during the summer. Whatever their reasoning, my Mom was denied this option. It is actually kind of scary thinking about that now since it is eerily one more parallel between my life and my Mothers. I once said in jest that I was living my Mothers' life. Then the validity of that statement hit me like a ton of bricks. But I digress, if Dad was with us, would we all have been in the car for that fateful trip? Would the appointment have been kept via a quick plane ride? How many different scenarios would have kept us off that highway that fateful night. 

But, it is what it is and an accident did happen and my life was turned upside down. Perhaps there was some justice in the courts in this instance. The driver of the truck was found responsible - or so I understand (I have never read the verdict from the courts). But I still don't know why. Was he drunk? High? Asleep? What is the justification for his actions? He left behind a young family and a wife - do they have a sense of guilt for his actions? They were victims of his actions as well. I was 12 years old and to be honest I didn't care at the time and put it out of my mind. Like a fact of history that you can't do anything about and eventually you simply let it go. I can sympathise with his family as much as I can sympathise with the families of those left behind in the aftermath of 9-11.  I could allow hatred or anger towards him consume by life but to what purpose? Would it change anything now? If we can time travel - I'm in, if only to stop whatever action he took that caused the accident. Until then, he is nothing to me. It's survival really. Put your energy into the fight you can win, the fight you have a hope of affecting some change. Otherwise, anger consumes you and you lose. 

I lost a lot of years of my life being consumed by anger. But it wasn't so much anger about the accident - which I couldn't control but the circumstances of my life because of the accident. Suddenly I was being molded to be someone I wasn't and overnight I became a person who wasn't good enough. That perception came from my grandmother. I felt loved and valued just as I was when my Mom walked this earth with me. It felt like everyone who thought I was okay, everyone who loved me for who and what I was walked out of my life and went to live under the dirt sky. And that sucked. It took me approximately 8 years to re-claim my life and learn that I was indeed okay. I didn't forgive my grandparents their discretions, so much as, with the wisdom of age I began to understand their motivations. All of which were twisted, selfish or simply them feeling superior to everyone else and therefore above reproach and unnecessary for them to heed the knowledge of others. That is an unforgivable offence. From them, all I can honestly say I learned is that people are not as they seem. That all sounds very harsh, but it is not random. My grandmother (like many of her Italian culture and age) favoured the male species. I was a girl who had a brother. A brother made more special in her eyes because he was sick. Double whammy for both he and I. My grandmother disliked my father and his side of the family long before my parents got married. I was a product of that union - so not as worthy from the start. I was scarred and therefore difficult to marry off to a suitable mate. Fortunately I had some very good role models who helped me to see that her thinking was warped and I was okay (or would be, once I was released from her clutches). I left a house I half owned and went on to make mistakes trying to find myself, the me that I could like.

It wasn't easy, because while I jumped over some potholes, I fell into others. A little worse for wear, I did become a little gun-shy. Meanwhile, I was gratefully re-establishing a relationship with my brother. Growing up under the rule of Nonna (Italian for grandmother), our sibling rivalry bordered on disgust. My brother received everything his heart desired before he even knew he wanted it. I fought for everything, including believe it or not, the basic necessity for a young girl - sanitary protection. I resorted to lying and stealing. I had as much disgust for myself as my brother had for me. That changed when I moved out and maturity let him see the reality and reasons for my struggles and the battles I caused. I am forever grateful for those short 4 years that allowed us to learn to love each other again. I forget the words that were spoken, the sound of his voice - but I will never forget the feeling. Because my heart holds the memories. Bottom line - after facing a lifetime of adversity and the death of my brother - I at the age of 22 re-invented myself. I left behind everyone and everything that I felt was toxic and holding me back. I stopped letting the anger consume me and decided to make the best of whatever time I had on this planet. I knew all too well that the rug could be pulled from under you without a moments notice. I ended a bad relationship, tried to remedy some bad financial decisions - new place to live, new job, new life. It worked and became a pattern I would follow several more times since then. The next time was to let go of a bad relationship that left me destitute and running off halfway across the country to start anew.
 

10 years have passed and I am at it again. I will never under the motivations of the Dufferin-Peel Catholic District School Board and their employees which drove me to the point of preferring death over survival under their terms. I will never forgive them their transgressions. I hope that with time I will let it go and forget them. Put them out of my mind - for most assuredly I know that they don't deserve my time or consideration. I could stay and fight for justice but it is not an easy thing to do on your own. You don't know what you have when you have family that you can count on for emotional support in times of joy and sadness. Treasure them. 


But have I deserved the hand I have been dealt? Is Karma sitting at my back door waiting to bite me in the ass again for some wrong I did? What did I do at the age of two to piss Karma off so badly that I have been punished my entire life by having those I love the most leave me? It is said that the good die young - at my age I am continuing to live on - despite the repeated attempts to change this scenario. So I deserve the pain that is forcing me to leave and re-invent myself once again? Or am I left here to walk this earth for a purpose that I don't fully understand yet. It has also been said that God never gives you more than you can handle - apparently God thinks I am a linebacker with enormous shoulders to carry this weight. Deep in the heart and soul that I have dissected and scrutinised repeatedly, I know that I am not a person deserving of pain and heartache but someone who learns from the experience and helps others with the knowledge gained. That is what I will continue to do from whatever location I shall find myself in. Justice can be meted out by a court that is much higher and powerful than myself. I have peace in my heart and knowledge that I am okay. 

Kodachrome-ing a Moment in Time

Kodachrome - Paul Simon

Kodachrome - the ability to capture a moment and hold on to it long after the moment has passed. It's just not the same with digital images, where most don't bother to print that tangible proof of the time worth capturing. And it's so easy to delete and do over. Or so we think. Perhaps it is because there are no second chances that I find myself occasionally looking over the photographic images with a caressing finger and tear running down my cheek. So many memories. Both good and bad. It may seem unusual for some to document in image form the bad but it happens. A gathering at a funeral, a wrecked car after a mishap, Mother Natures glory before her fury. 

But while Paul Simon thinks back on all the crap he learned in high school I think of one person who left this world too soon and left my life long before I was ready for it. My sister Sandra Sdraulig. Sandra was born on All Saints Day (November 1) one year and 22 days before I came along. She was the oldest, the wisest, the most confident and she seemed so grown up. Our twin beds occupied the same room but her and I had very little in common in our pre-teen years. There were four kids in the family and when we paired off to battle or play, she was never on my team. Sandra would rather rough-house with the boys or talk to the adults then play silly pretend games with barbie dolls and secrets. She was self-assured, confident and well-liked by all. She had a entourage of friends with a few especially close ones. She was talented in sports and excelled at artistic endeavours like ballet, tap and jazz dancing. It seemed that she succeed in all that she tried and I was envious of her abilities that seemed to come so easily. 

Sandra trying to push me into the fountain! Or so I thought

It seems strange sometimes that there was only one year difference between us but she seemed to have accomplished so much. Despite her tom-boyish behaviour she was an accomplished seamstress (clearly inheriting my mom's talent in this area), she had been on a tour of Italy with my grandparents where she perfected the language so as to converse fluently with all the friends and relatives who passed through our door. This brief journey cemented an unbreakable bond between her and our grandfather. Truly the only time I remember him smiling is when they had their arms around each other. The closeness that they shared was a joy to observe. Laughing and smiling together with private jokes only they understood. All cross-generational family relationships should be so special. As an adult I could understand the pain and anguish that he must have felt when she died - like a piece of his heart was ripped away. He never smiled again - not sober anyways. As a kid of 12 when Sandra passed away, all I felt from my grandfather was a resentment that she was gone and I remained. She was a treasure for sure and a crushing blow for him. 

But he wasn't alone in feeling her loss so intently. The Home Economics teacher saw all the fruits of her labour come to a head with the enthusiasm and talent that Sandra possessed in the domestic arts. I followed a year later in the same classroom with none of the zeal and a mountain of resentment that the Catholic education system would not allow me to join the boys in the Industrial Arts room to play with the tools. It was hard being in her shadow and worse when people expected me to rise to her level. She had some pretty big shoes to fill. I didn't come close.

As different as people saw us after she was gone, I saw similarities. We were two young girls trying to find our own place in the world. Fortunately, as she neared her teen years and upcoming high school experience, we suddenly found that in the darkness after family "good nights" were spoken, we leaned over the edge of the beds to whisper secrets of boys, love and life. I was suddenly a person she looked to for companionship and friendship. The gap that separated us was closing and I couldn't have been more thrilled. We had a commonality suddenly - boy crazy. The time of connectivity was short-lived because she was ripped from my heart too. My grandfather may have had her closeness for longer but it hurt me too when she was no more. For many years I walked into our room and saw her empty bed. Many times I wanted to lean across the narrow pathway between the beds and shake her mattress to wake up and talk. 

Dad takes a break from working on the house
to cradle his new babe!

The last day of her life, as we began that fateful car ride Paul Simon began to sing Kodachrome and Sandra remarked that it was her favourite song. I don't know what meaning it held for her if any. Maybe it was just thoughts of bright colours and the greens of summer. But the bright colour that came that night were not nice and she never made to see the summer colours again. I don't remember the last words that she spoke to me. In the dark of the night as my mom guided the car down the divided highway, Sandra occupied the front middle seat. It had been a long day and if us four kids weren't asleep we were dozing off. In the aftermath when the car came to a rest on its roof in the middle of the Grindstone River, the flames were bright and words of fear (from my youngest sister, Linda) and words of encouragement (from my mom) were spoken. But not a word from Sandra. Seat belts weren't used in those days and I always hoped that she had been spared the pain and may have been killed in the initial impact being tossed into the front dash or windshield. I've asked and no one has ever answered. In the end it really doesn't matter how. The knowing doesn't change the outcome, she was gone. My dad's first born and pride of his heart had left to go be with him. 

Sandra models the dress she made herself

She left me to take on the role of oldest in the family and I was ill-equipped to follow in her footsteps and forever remained in her shadow. 

I regret not knowing her better. I regret not having her to turn to in the quiet of the night with the fears faced growing up. I regret not having her by my side and never again knowing what it is like to grow up in a sisterhood. She was an amazing child of 13 when she left the earthly world and she would have been an amazing adult. No doubt! And my life is much emptier not having had her a part of it. When I consider a role model for my life, she is it. She is my big sister!

If I knew that the last time I hugged you it would be the last time, I would never let go. If I knew the last time I saw you smile would be the last time, I would never blink. If I knew the last time I heard you voice would be the last time, I would never want to hear another sound. If I knew the last time I saw you would be the last time I would take pictures til there was no Kodachrome left in the world and hold them in my withering old hands. But I never knew. The times I cried for you can not be calculated, the tears I've shed make Niagara Falls look like a babbling brook. I love and miss you. This lifetime without you has been too long.

Happy Birthday Sandra...see you soon!