Mama. Your Legacy Continues.

 For the most part, I live my life in gratitude. Grateful for where I am. And grateful for where I've come from.  Even though I feel like I have come from questionable circumstances and I have lived many "wtf" moments. I am indeed grateful to be here and now. 

But there are rare occasions I wish I could go back in time. 

And most of them would transport me back into the presence of my Mama. 

While she was here with us I had no idea I had so many questions. 

Why? Why? Why? 

Why did you choose my Dad?

Why were you so honouring?

Why were you so willing?

Why were you so humble? 

My Mama's talents were so beyond. Seriously. When she set her mind to something, she became the best. 

One of the last things my Mama set her mind to was quilting. 

And she excelled. 

Ok, maybe she obsessed. 

And while I, and the rest of my siblings, were in awe and reaped the benefits of her talents, so far none has picked up her passion. 

Enter today. 

My nine-year-old granddaughter, Beatrice Jean (yup, named for Grandma Jean) presented this quilt to her six-year-old sister Daphne. She had been working hard with her Gramma Maureen all summer to put this quilt together. 

She is nine! 

This Granny is so impressed and in awe. 

She is NINE years old!! 

Mama! Could I go back in time I would introduce you to my Bea. My Beatrice Jean. While it breaks my heart you never knew her, I also know that where  you are, you know. 

She carries your name. She carries your talent. She carries your character: Humble. Quiet. Caring. Determined. Excelling. 

Monkey Bump!

Fasting not required. 

That's how I interpretted my doctor's brutal handwriting  on Tuesday when I showed up for my blood test appointment. 

Turns out it said, "Fasting mid August." 

The lovely lab tech/nurse/clerk (not sure of her formal title) informed me they had no available appointment slots left for Wednesday. But she was sympathetic to the fact I was leaving town Thursday and said if I just showed up sometime in the morning, she would be there, and would squeeze me in. 

I arrived shortly before 10am, having had no coffee and minimally brushing my teeth, being careful not to swallow. 

My nurse of yesterday was nowhere to be seen. Neither were any of the supposed patients who had all the appointments booked. The waiting room was empty and I got in right away. 

"Liana?" the nurse calls out. 

I stood to follow her to the blood sucking station. 

"What's your last name?"

"Ziemer," I respond out loud while thinking, "I'm doing fabulous, thanks. I got a parking spot right next to the meter and had no-one in line ahead of me." 

"Birthdate?" 

I responded with the correct answer followed by my usual comment when having to have blood taken, "My veins don't always cooperate. Often they need to use a baby butterfly in my hand to get blood." 

She wasn't particularly friendly from the get-go, but my comment caused an actual visual cloud come over her. As if I was challenging her. 

She whips a rubber tourniquet around my upper arm, swabs my inner elbow and gives it a couple of firm taps. 

She didn't even ask me to make a fist. But I did anyway. This is not my first rodeo. 

She plunged a syringe into my veins. 

It wasn't completely painless, but not the most painful blood extraction I've experienced.

She sucked out a single vial of blood.

And in one fell swoop, removed the tourniquet and taped a cotton swab onto the injection site. 

"You are free to go," she triumphantly stated. 

"Well, that was easy peasy. Thank you." I stood up and walked out of the clinic after being in her chair less than 40 seconds. 

As a token of appreciation of my less-than-five-minutes in the medical lab for which I was forced to purchase a mandatory minimum 2-hour parking ticket (aided by the fact I was parked right next to the meter) I took my parking ticket and jammed it into a crevice in the parking meter hoping someone else could use it.  

I then sat in the car for two minutes answering some texts. 

Meanwhile an older gentleman came up to the parking meter and took the ticket and was squinting to examine the dates and times on it. 

"It's good until 12:30," I said. "It was mine, but I only used it for 5 minutes." 

Oh my gosh! Best part of my day was the glee on his face! He saved a loonie. 

I drove away, headed for Costco. 

I got a few blocks away from the clinic and my inner elbow felt tight, like the tape was pulling on my skin. So as I was driving I reached with my right hand and pulled the tape and cotton swab off my elbow. A quick glance showed a bit of blood on the swab, maybe slightly more than normal, but not a crazy amount. 

Driving further my inner elbow still felt weird, so I look down at it.

Monkey bump! It looked like there was a golf ball under my skin at the injection site! 

I tried to get a photo. Yeah, I was driving distracted. 

I was driving so couldn't get the best angle. But this was a giant monkey bump! 

It's now 12 hours later. The bump has subsided somewhat but I am black 'n blue and if I touch it I get a jerking reflex sensation. 

I've never experienced anything like it. And I've given many many vials of blood to the lab. 

 

Tiny Seeds of Joy Sown 100 Years Ago

My grandchildren’s great-great-great-great Grandmother Winnifred Florence Elvina Christina Jay Cutting (Now that’s a mouthful of name) would be one hundred and fifty five years old were she still living.

She was born in 1868, married in 1889 and widowed in 1903 at the age of 35 when her husband George Smith Cutting succumbed to typhoid.

Times were tough. Winnifred took in boarders, did laundry for people, cleaned houses, grew her own food, preserved the produce, baked, and sewed the family’s clothing, all while raising their five children on her own. The eldest of whom was 13-year-old Howard.

Winnifred would harvest the seeds from her vegetables and flowers so she could propagate them in future years.

She successfully raised all of her children. Not an easy feat for a single woman at the turn of the 20th century.

Howard went on to marry Elva Watterworth and they had four sons, Earl, Bert, Harvey and Murray, as well as adopting Shirley, the infant daughter of Howard’s younger sister Mary Viola who died in childbirth.

Harvey grew up and married Margaret Forman. And Jean, the eldest of their six children went on to marry Ed deBalinhard and have five children – yours truly being the second in line.

Before Winnifred passed away in 1949 in Carman Manitoba, she gave some of the seeds she had collected over the years to her grandson Earl (Harvey’s older brother) and his wife Annie who lived across the street from her.

Annie hung onto a little bag of poppy seeds for decades, and many years before she passed in 2013, she gifted them to her daughter Gwenda.

Gwenda was decluttering her home last year, in 2022, and came across the 80-100 year old little bag of seeds.

With little hope of success, some of the seeds were given to a relative who worked in a nursery in Manitoba to see if they would germinate.

To everyone’s delight, within 2 months the seeds had blossomed into the most beautiful frilly purple poppies!

And through the magic of the internet and Facebook, I took Gwenda up on her offer of some of the heritage seeds.

Winnifred had no idea that nearly 100 years later, I would be thrilled out of my mind to have those little suckers blooming in our wildflower garden behind our house.

Great-great-great-great Grandma Winnifred Florence Elvina Christina Jay Cutting.  (With baby Gwenda)

Howard and Elva with Earl, Bert and Baby Harvey on the lap. 

Harvey with Jean, Liana and his first great-grandchild, Brandi. 

Winnifred's grandson Harvey, and his daughter Jean, and her daughter Liana, and her son Ken, and his son Xander - Winnifred's great-great-great-great grandson.

Over My Head

“Granny has GOT to take swimming lessons,” my thirteen year old grandson stated to his mother, with the authority of an army commander, while in the car on their way to my house. I was taking him and his sister to the pool during the Christmas break while Mom went to work.

If he expounded with, “She’s so boring in the pool with her fear of water and inability to swim,” they didn’t tell me.

But it’s true. I do fear the water and have never learned to swim. And it's quite likely I am considered boring in the water. But they never refuse to go with me.

What he didn’t know was that while I was online looking up the pool hours I also looked up adult swimming lessons. There was a group starting on January eighth.

Adult lessons are an open group, in that they include all levels from non-swimmers to those just looking to improve their skills. That freaked me out a bit.

Perhaps it would be better to take a couple of private lessons before jumping into a group session. But there were no private lessons available until mid-February so I would have to wait until March for group lessons.

Xander and I discussed this on the way to the pool and he agreed it was probably the wise choice for me.

This wasn’t the first time I had investigated adult swimming lessons. In early 2020 I had planned to take lessons when I returned from Maui. I LOVE the ocean but I’m certain I would enjoy it even more if I could snorkel and swim with the sharks.

But COVID19 came to Canada while I was in Maui. I caught the last flight out before the airways and everything else shut down. No swimming lessons for Granny. (Phew!)

While at the pool with the kids, as is our usual routine, Maeve tried to give me "lessons" by getting me to do various moves.

Much to the shock and surprise of both the kids and myself, I was treading water! I didn’t go in water over my head but I managed to flounder in the water like a fish OUT of water and ‘swim’ the width of the pool and back without touching the bottom.

Xander attributed this to Maeve’s great instructions and guidance. The only thing I could put it down to was our trip to Manitou Springs Resort last year.

There are three Dead Seas in the world. And one of them is smack dab in the middle of Saskatchewan at Manitou Beach. (The third is in Chech Repulic) Who knew!

We spent as much time in the mineral pools of Manitou as we possibly could. It was impossible to sink in the 8 feet deep water even if you tried.

And Jim tried.

I did not.



I was super happy just treading and floating along on top the water like Jesus.

I’m thinking I must have inadvertently carried some of that water confidence away with me.

Maybe I didn’t need private lessons after all.

Later, after the encouragement of a glass or two of wine, I registered for the January 8 group session.

And the next Sunday at 10am, instead of attending church, Jim slid into the public hot tub while I slipped into the pool with nine much-younger-than-me adults and Jacob, our instructor who wasn’t a whole lot older than my grandson.

In the group there was only one other non-swimmer, and during our introductions no one else admitted to having my fear of water.

Introductions out of the way, we dove right in. Literally.

I'm not sure what I was expecting on the first day, but it certainly wasn't all the things.

Face in water.

Breathe.

Blow.

Front crawl.

Out of water

In the water.

Back strokes.

Hold your breath.

Oh Jesus!

Butterfly leg kicks.

Treading water.

Underwater.

He was gracious enough to allow us to use foam floaters or pool noodles to start.

In between many of the activities Jacob instructed us to hop up on the edge.

Hop up on the edge? Are you kidding me. I don’t just hop up on anything. Much less from standing in water up to my armpits with the ledge eight inches above that.

The show of me launching my swimsuit clad body onto the pool deck must have been great entertainment for the nearby parents who were there to watch their five-year-olds at the other end of the pool. Not a pretty sight I assure you.

My arms were definitely not expecting this sort of workout.

They tried complaining.

My brain told them to shut up.

Within ten minutes of starting class a headache descended upon me. Like a knife piercing through one temple and out the other.

I don't get headaches.

And by ten minutes after that I had swallowed so much air, thankfully not water but air, I was burping and burping and burping and fighting the very real urge to vomit.

“Let’s head over to the big pool and tread water,” Jacob motions toward the deep end of the cold pool.

“Over our heads?” was all I was able to squeak out.

“Yeah. I will wear a rescue belt,” his reply.

Umm right. You. Professional swimmer. Gets rescue belt. I, fearful old woman, gets to drown.

Most of the other students were comfortable jumping right into the deep end.

I climbed in by ladder.

But I am happy to report that I did manage to fulfill our taskmaster’s demand that we tread for a full two minutes. And I didn’t even touch the edge that I never let get more than six inches away from my shoulder.

Then it was back to the smaller pool where the water now felt so much warmer.

Since we had run through every.single.thing on Jacob’s list for the full nine weeks he decided we would finish out the day by playing games.

“Let’s play Frankenstein’s Monster!” he enthusiastically suggested. None of us had a clue what he was talking about.

We are adults, Jacob. Adults. Y'know, old people. He continued, "Basically we pretend we are building a monster on the bottom of the pool, and whatever body part is called for you touch it to the bottom of the pool."

“Frankenstein needs a shoulder!”

I don’t think any of us successfully touched a shoulder to the bottom of the pool but we all gave it a valiant effort.

By the time Frankenstein needed a nose, an ear, a butt and an elbow I was unsuccessful in delivering any of these body parts four-and-a-half feet underwater. But I did manage to fill all my sinus cavities with pool water. They felt like they were going to explode off my face and away from the knife that was still plunged through my temples.

I kept waiting for Frankenstein to call for boobs. That I might have been successful in delivering. Apparently monsters don’t have boobs.

I managed to bring an end to the game when I surfaced from the depths and pushed my hair and water from my face. I felt a scratch on my hand as it brushed against my ear. I grabbed my earlobe and in my hand I held a small post of white gold. The rest of my diamond earring was gone.

It’s not the first time I have lost this earring. But that’s another story for another time.

My inner voice screamed, “Why the heck would you wear your diamonds to the pool?” I dunno. I sleep in them and I didn’t think to remove them.

This created a new diving game for the group: Find Granny’s Diamonds.

Thank the Lord, Jacob surfaced with the earring in his hand.

“Bless you,” I said. “And my husband thanks you.”

And someone else found the back of somebody else’s earring.

I put the two pieces of my broken earring on my kickboard at the side of the pool and rejoined the class.

We had been active in the water for a solid 45 minutes. Jacob suggested we practice doing backward summersaults in the water to close out the final minutes of the session.

Whatever! I don’t do 45 minutes of sustained activity ever. And I certainly don’t start doing back flips after such nonsense.

I pulled my Granny card and stood in the water and watched the others do both back and forward flips.

And we were dismissed two minutes early.

I was relieved.

I was exhausted.

Every part of my body ached. I was proud of my determination. I was emotional from the loss and subsequent finding of my earring. Sad that my first gift from my then-boyfriend, now-husband was broken.

I gathered up my diamonds and gold and took my swimsuit clad body with it's pounding head, aching sinuses, plugged ears, worn out shoulders, and nauseous tummy to the changeroom.

“That wasn’t the most fun I’ve ever had,” I said to a classmate. “But I’ll be back.” I think this was more a matter of convincing myself rather than letting her know she would see me again.

I threw my towel and swimsuit in my bag, pulled my clothes onto my still damp body. I didn't even bother with socks and underwear. I didn't have the energy to fight them.

I blow dried my hair, found my boots and walked with trepidation across the icy parking lot to where Jim was waiting in the car for me.

“How was that, Honey?”

I burst out crying.

And cried all the way home till I flopped myself into my bed for an hour.

And when I awoke I ordered nose plugs from Amazon.

And I’ll be back.





WEEK TWO:

Well, that little nose plug was a game changer.

And I didn't wear jewelry.

I even managed to do a front flip in the water. And I kept my headache to a minimum - aided in part by the pre-lesson sinutab I took, I'm sure.

By the 45-minute mark of the second session I was once again exhausted but put in a half hearted effort to give Frankenstein my hips and other assorted body parts when it came time to play water games to close out the session.

Then in a last minute plot twist, instructor Jacob says, "Let's head over to the big pool and try some shallow dives."

I dragged my exhausted butt out of the warm pool and plunked it down on the bench to watch the rest of the class do assorted entries into the 8-foot waters, ranging from belly flops to relatively successful dives.

What the heck!? This is our second class and we are supposed to be diving!

I'm not sure what exactly I was expecting on the second day of adult swimming lessions. I assure you my adult mind was envisioning something similar to the toddler lessons my babies had participated in 35 years prior. Y'know, where they allow you three lessons just to get comfortable with putting your face in the water.

After everyone had done a couple of dives, Jacob turned to me and asks, "Are you gonna try?"

I'm not sure if I even uttered any words to him while I shook my head and gave him a look that likely said all that I was thinking and feeling.

And with that we were dismissed for another week.

Two classes down. Seven more to go. Hang in there Granny.

WEEK THREE:

Class was quite a bit smaller this week. All the smart ones stayed home in their warm beds.

Jacob rounded the five of us up and herded us to the deep end of the big pool even before we got to dip our toes in the warm shallow pool.

"We are going to practice our dives."

Darn! I think he's onto me. No more "I'm too tired, I don't think it's safe for me to attempt this," excuses for me.

I made sure I lined up in the spot closest to the edge in case they had to drag my limp and drowning body from the water.

I knew Jim was watching from the hot tub in near disbelief, sprinkled with a wee bit of pride as I teetered on the edge.

I envisioned the look on my grandkids faces the next time I took them to the pool and I head straight for the deep end. That's the goal of this entire escapade.

I adjusted my nose plug and got into position - one foot forward, hands together, chin tucked.

Big breath.

Don't think.

And I pushed off.

I'm sure I looked elegant and at ease as I entered the water straight as an arrow.

Like I'd been shot from a bow.

I went down down down.

Hold your breath. Don't take on water. Which way is up? Oh yeah, blow your bubbles. Keep one arm extended to protect your head. Holy crap. I got this.Oh Jesus! What am I doing!? All the simultaneous thoughts racing through my head in the seconds, that felt like eternity, while I flailed and kicked and floundered my way back to the surface.

There were a couple of classmates who still struggled with belly flops, so Jacob reached for their hands to help pull them under the water arms and head first.

My turn.

He offered his hand to me.

"Don't you even think about touching me." I responded as I pushed off once again, marginally more successful the second time.

Phew! Got the deep end of the pool out of the way right off the bat.

And into the warm pool. Where Jacob informs us that part of the requirements of the class is to learn life saving techniques. "Let's practice dragging each other across the pool as if we are saving their life.

Ok, Christine. I'm sure you are a nice girl and all, but if you find yourself in distress in the water, say your prayers and give your life to Jesus, because I will not be jumping in after you.

But I did manage to drag her across the pool.

Scissor kicks. Egg beaters (where I discovered I absolutely cannot rotate my left leg in clockwise fashion - weird. Side stroke. Backstroke. Front crawl. Breaststroke. Goofy kicks that feel like frog motion. Back & forth we go. Breathe Granny, breathe.

"Did I mention I'm required to do fitness testing?" Jacob laughs.

How far can you swim under water without surfacing?

How fast can you get across the pool?

Can you swim 4 widths of the pool without drowning?

Yeah, I didn't drown, but my heart darn near stopped from the cardio workout.

Geez Louise.

Week three in the books. Let's hit the showers. Six more to go.



WEEKS FOUR TO SEVEN: More of the same. But getting a little more comfortable in the water each time.

And the end of class Jacob warns us that next week, class number eight, is test week and we will need to swim two laps of the big pool in stroke or form we choose, followed by four laps of front crawl, followed by four laps of back stroke and ending with two laps of stroke of choice. TWELVE laps of the pool in one go!!

Holy Hannah!



WEEK EIGHT:

Only two of us showed up for class.

I think Jacob probably learned something that day.

Don't warn the adults of upcoming tests.

Marcina and I had an hour of semi-private lessons and testing will commence on week nine, the final day of this crazy adventure I signed up for.



WEEK NINE: The Grande Finale

"Straight into the lane pool with you!" Jacob announces to the class that has about 50 percent of the participants that started out on January 8th.

I'm not sure what had me being only one of two people who never missed a class; my determination or my utter cheapness that says if you spend a hundred bucks on lessons you are darn well gonna attend them!

Either way I was feeling pretty successful in my accomplishment. Even if I was about to drown in my final lesson. TWELVE laps comin' up.

Twelve laps is 300 meters.

Sounds a bit trivial as I type this out.

But I don't actually walk 300 meters without breathing heavy. Swimming it was a stretch.

The first two laps were "stroke of choice." I did a front crawl with head out of water while wearing my nose plug on my thumb as I generally did while doing things that don't require my face in the water.

And I was already out of breath.

But I carried on with the next task: four laps of front crawl.

I'm not sure if I forgot, or if I subconsciously thought "I'm a big girl, I can do this without a nose plug." But about five meters into the lap I inhaled water. Thank God we had started in the shallow end.

I stopped, looked around and saw Jacob focussed on another student. I offered up thanksgiving while I slipped on my nose plug and carried on my way trying not to choke.

I did three of the four front crawl laps relatively successfully while I periodically looked up to see my loving husband lounging in the hot tub cheering me on. Jerk.

Final front crawl lap. Proper technique would have you taking a breath with every thrid stroke. I was gasping with every forward thrust of an arm.

I wasn't necessarily "tired." My arms and legs were doing okay. But my lungs. Oh.My.Word. My lungs were done.

I had just watched the "Jesus Revolution" movie at the theatre last night. And I kept repeating "Holy Spirit power. Holy Spirit power," to my lungs. Just keep going.

Then I launched into singing, "It's Your breath, in my lungs. It's Your breath in my lungs."

Okay, I didn't actually sing. I had no breath to sing.

But the one line of that song played on repeat in my head.

All the while I envisioned what it would look like if I actually started drowning.

It wasn't pretty.

And it would be embarassing.

So I estimated I needed another 15 strokes to finish the lap.

And I started counting: Left arm stroke. ONE. It's Your breath...

Right arm stroke. TWo. It's Your breath...

I miss counted. It took 18 strokes.

I reached the end of the pool.

Now four laps of backstroke.

It was like a vacation.

While it probably took me twice as long as most others, I removed my nose plug and talked my way through it.

Jim was still there in hot tub cheering me on.

Then two final cool down laps using whatever stroke I chose. I actually don't remember how I got from one end of the pool to the other but I did it.

Yay me.

We finished off the last half of the class in the warm pool playing various games of dodgeball, water basketball and underwater diving and attempted handstands.

Near the end of class Jacob was congratulating us all and asking if we planned on taking the "Adult Level Four" lessons next.

WTF???!

We all looked at each other.

"Level 4??" we asked.

"Yeah," he responded. This class was Adult level three.

The website we had all registered on had the exact same description for all the adult classes. We all chose this particular class (thinking they were all the same) based solely on the time slot.

Had I known this, I absolutely would not have started with this Sunday at 10AM class.

I would have started with Adult Level One.

And then done level two. Before I ventured on to level three.

But I managed to marginally conquer level three in one go.

I saved two hundred bucks!!

I think I'll spend my savings on a new pair of shoes.





******** End of official blog*************





Extra add on:



In January I participated in a 30-Day Poetry Challenge.

During week two of my swimming lessons one of my daily poetry prompts was the word "episode."

Here is the poem I wrote:

The Dive
By Liana Ziemer

Push with the leading foot, hands together, chin down
The water comes up to greet me before I can stop
I silently pray, “Oh dear God, don’t let me drown.”
Down, down, down into the depths I flop

Hold your breath. No. No. Bubbles you must blow.
I think I’m sinking outta sight
Flailing, kicking, writhing. Where did the surface go?
Seems like eternity before I see the light

I manage to make my way to the edge
While I thank the Lord that I’m alive
My trembling hands grasp onto the ledge
I did it! I took my first dive!

In fifty eight years I never learned to swim
But two thousand twenty three is my year
Where was my head when I signed up on a whim?
Call it a lesson, but for me an episode of fear.

******Extra Extra Add On:

I am still being motivated by the Conqueror Challenges to get my daily steps in.

During my traumatic swimming venture I earned two medals.
My time in the pool earned me the English Channel medal. I managed to burn off the equivalent of walking more than 33 kilometers - the distance of swimming the the English Channel.

I also managed to swim the actual distance of swimming up and down the distance of the Rideau Canal, which is 15 kilometers. Yes folks. I swam FIFTEEN kilometers. Swam. Me. In water. Often over my head.