Dear Reader,

Thank you for reading me ! ( I’ve always wanted to say that )

THE TRAM TICKET…..a love story

The year was probably 1941. It may have been the first time they met.

As the story goes, he gave Lisette a tramway ticket because she didn’t have one, and it was later than she expected and she needed to get home. On subsequent meetings, Lisette often attempted to return the ticket but George always refused. She was fiercely independent and wanted to owe nothing.

They would begin to date and she started up a cross country skiing club that she called LE CLUB DE SKI CHATTANOOGA, in reference to the very popular song at the time called Chattanooga Choo Choo.

When they married in Montreal the following year, he told her in jest that if ever she wanted to get rid of him, she had only to return the ticket and he’d know what it means.

Years went by and at their 50th wedding anniversary, the story came up again. George addressed the invited guests at the Hélène de Champlain restaurant on Sainte Hélène’s Island, and thanked his beloved Lisette for all their years together and ended with the statement "I guess I’m OK for another few years because she still hasn’t returned the tram ticket she owes me".

It is now November 1998 and Lisette is in palliative care. She is so serene and seems to accept better than all of us that this is the end.

She appears anxious to share something with me and so as soon as we are alone she says: "Susan, you’ll never guess!! I was emptying my wallet earlier today, getting rid of useless cards and papers, and guess what I found! I found the famous ticket that I’ve always kept."

I let out a shout!

I had heard the story so many times over the years, that I almost knew where this story was going. It seemed so right and appropriate.

"Did you give it back to daddy?"

"Oh yes!" she smiled, " I tried to, but he refused it….again".

-- Susan Grant

Dear Reader,

I am home

I don’t want to move again. I‘ve done that, not going to do it again. I am “aging in place.” This is the last house of many, the best house of all, room for every thing and everyone, more room than we need, lovely space to feel oh so comfortable. Views out the windows of trees and bushes, no traffic, no people, just a lovely peaceful garden with birds and squirrels, the occasional bunny or turkey, and the deer who eat my flowers; the deer can share the apples, but please don’t eat my flowers. There is no need to move to downsize, just make adjustments, adapt where you are now. Simplify meals, gather necessities in convenient spots, ignore the chores that can wait.

My house is my home, my refuge, my castle. Some days I want to pull up the drawbridge and keep out the world. No appointments, no obligations, no need to go anywhere. Other days I revel in family or friends who bring smiles and laughter; they help with daily tasks, they bring good things to eat and do all the cooking; they are company and comfortable.

I love to sit at my kitchen table where I drink coffee, read my current book on its book rack, eat breakfast or lunch, feed the cat, and keep the “dog cookies for good dogs.” There are so many good memories of all the years of kitchen table coffee and conversations with family and friends, where all the world problems are solved, egos soothed, plans made to go places, do wonders.

Getting older brings many side effects. The knees don’t want to bend so much; the bones sometimes ache; the hands and feet don’t work as well as they did. The back gets tired if standing for too long. Though it is easy to bring up happy memories, it can be hard to remember what day it is. Being in a familiar place surrounded by familiar belongings and furnishings is comforting. My bookshelves hold photos of the people I love, many of whom are only here in memories and, of course, all those books I am going to read again. Every book and bookend, the small cat and dog statues, the marble globe, the dolls, the stuffed dogs, each item has memories and evokes feelings, like little hugs from the past.

The daily problems are both big and small, like keeping all the medications straight, finding comfortable shoes, doing the laundry, buying smaller product sizes; or finding someone to mow the lawn, take out the trash, clean the house. We need to find somewhere to donate perfectly good items that are no longer needed. It is important to write notes of what needs to be done, who you need to call, what has to be fixed, where you need to be and when, the “to do lists.” Then remember to check the lists.

But we also have more time to reflect, less interest in getting things “done.” I finally have time to read all the books saved to read “sometime soon,” to enjoy all over again the old familiar movies, to exchange emails with friends, but sometimes there is not enough energy to do much at all. I can sit down with a good book and fall asleep for an hour. Enjoying taking a nap is a luxury of getting older.

I don’t want to leave my familiar comfortable home. We made plans so we can stay in place. When we need help we will ask for it, but being home is most important. That wonderful feeling when you come home from a trip or just from a day out, and you slip off your shoes, put on your slippers, and settle into your comfortable chair, with the cat in your lap and the dog at your feet, that is the best feeling in the world.

-- Bonnie Ladd Hamilton

Dear Reader,

Growing up in a volatile home, I spent copious amounts of time in my grandparent’s home. Weekends during the school year, and all my summers. The quiet, settled nature of their life drew me in like a ship looking for a safe haven. They provided endless amounts of love and patience.

Summers at my grandparents were filled with lots of fun but also chores- I helped with washing the dishes, hanging the laundry on the line (oh, the smell of sunshine on grandma’s sheets!), weeding and gardening, and my favorite “chore”- getting to ride the lawnmower with my grandfather. To this day, the smell of fresh cut grass goes straight to my heart and makes me pause for a moment and think of him.

My grandmother’s baking and garden were somewhere close to paradise for me- her pie crusts were something conjured from magic- soft, flaky, buttery, and made with love. Her garden was like a scene from fairyland- Lily of the Valley, Bleeding hearts, Gladiolas, Poppies, Tulips, Daisies, Pitcher plants, and many more magically named plants. I was sure a fairy village must be nestled in this garden and spent endless days imagining that I spotted one- just out of sight. When the fireflies came alive at night it was a scene straight out of Fern Gully!

I was happy to tag along and “help” with any project that my grandparents were currently involved with- that included my grandma’s bowling league, my grandpa’s trips to the local airport, bingo nights, trips to visit friends- everywhere they went- there I was too! There was never a time when I ever felt not wanted by them. They surrounded me with a stability and normalcy that I craved. Being born to a young mother, I also got to spend time with and know my great grandparents- we played gin rummy together! How blessed and lucky was I to have that time with them.

Out of all of the activities I helped my grandpa with- my favorite was tooling around in grandpa’s shed. The wonder of all those tools! Those tools that I was allowed to touch- I was taught how to handle all properly. I would work on projects with grandpa that involved the tape measure- we measured everything I could think of- how many inches was I? How many inches was grandpa? How many feet between grandma’s rows of plants, how long is a blade of grass? I was learning while I was helping but it never seemed like a lesson- he just stoked my curiosity and encouraged me to think of all the ways to measure everyday items. For some reason –the safety goggles always found their way onto my face- he was keeping me safe while I was playing a grand role- believing the goggles gave me special eyesight.

Now to the tools that were off limits- those I was never allowed to handle. Those of course held the most appeal! What did the drill do or the hacksaw? What on earth was a maul and what did it do? The air compressor scared me silly- grandpa would turn it on and out I would go! I think maybe he secretly wanted some alone time in his shed.

The lazy summer days were full for me- I had endless chores to help with and endless projects to offer my supervision and assistance- I was an expert at finding and handing requested tools to grandpa. I often reminisce about those days and sometimes it hurts so close to my heart that I get a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes. I hope they both know how much they saved me with those long summer days and nights and allowing me into grandpa’s shed.

-- Christine Thorp