Author: Daniela Ginta Page 63 of 99

It was two days ago. The rainbow was dipping its colorful feet in the lake, arching its way all the way from Kenna Cartwright. Intermittent rain pinched the surface of the water and though it was cold, we kept on casting lines. We have learned to fish, you see.

The boys are casting their lines and getting more eager by the minute to catch something. But they have to learn patience while fishing, and learn about baits and how to never leave behind any discarded line, no matter how small the piece.

They brought one of their bows and arrows too, so they switch between fishing and archery. We look at them and smile. There is no arguing over turns with the bow like last fall when they first got their hands on one. They’ve learned and we have too.

Since moving here a year ago we have discovered things and places and people and have gotten over many hurdles. It’s been a good year.

We took the boys hiking mild sunny slopes and also steep ones. They have learned that the gusto you start out with might dwindle as the mild slopes grow into steep trails guarded by merciless thorns. So be it, we said, we can’t give up just like that.

We didn’t, they didn’t and every time we got to the top they said “Oh, this was worth it.” It’s like that in life, I told them. If you don’t have to work for it you just don’t value it enough to not take it for granted.

We’ve all grown in the last year more than expected and that’s because a new place does that to you. It challenges you to step out of the comfort zone and not everything ends with a laurel crown at the end, but you learn nonetheless.

We have camped on a whim, just by throwing a few things in the car and stopping by a lake that seemed like the right location simply based on how the afternoon sun played on its surface.

And just like that, we hiked alongside frozen lakeshores midwinter, we skied across frozen lakes and witnessed the most amazing starry night one night after a late dinner that could’ve ended in early bedtime, but instead became a late night adventure we all remember to this day.

Our first Wells Grey Park foray was wrapped in thick rain blankets almost the whole time we were there but there’s an unmistakable sense of victory when you make a fire using soggy wood and dry up beside it. Sausages and marshmallows never tasted better.

We’ve canoed on lakes and rivers and had the boys remind us of the promise of a big canoe camping trip we mused about a few months ago. It’s a pressing matter when you’re a boy and ready for adventure.

We have built rituals. Farmer’s market on Saturdays, walks to the library and the downtown backstreets with all the colorful graffiti, pre-bedtime walks along the river shores and those few hot hikes in Peterson Creek Park that made us understand the place we’re in and love the landscape rewards it has to offer once you’ve dusted your way up on one of the hills.

The boys have favorite lakes and streets, and so do we. We have come to be in a place that we did not know and had no preconceived notions about.

Every time we leave for a few days or longer, I miss our new home. I have come to love the open green embrace of Nicola Valley as we drive home through Merritt and the long rolls of clouds that build a sky like no other.

It’s been a good year. If all we have learned can seem slightly more than ordinary to other people, then the one thing we hold high is that we have learned how being in a new place has to be a dynamic, give-some-take-some kind of experience or else you would get to taste nothing of what a place has to offer.

We’re now heading into our second year. Preparing the garden for next spring, planning for that canoe camping trip and, since we have promised, have us all camp at least one night in the backyard igloo we will build sometimes in mid-December. Because we will.

Originally published as a column in the Saturday edition of the Kamloops Daily News on August 31, 2013

My mom passed away unexpectedly seven years ago. I never got a chance to say goodbye. It never occurred to me that she could disappear from our lives all of a sudden and still young.

A couple of years later, during a conversation with a friend whose mother had also passed away, I experienced contradictory feelings. His mom had suffered from a chronic disease that kept her around long enough for him to say goodbye and “all the things I wanted to say to her.”

I envied him. I wished I had a chance to say to my mom all the things I wanted to say.

And then it dawned on me that I may have forgotten some of those things anyway. Life is like that. Saying ‘thank you’ and ‘goodbye’ is mostly what I wished I said to her. We’re always wiser after sailing on rougher seas.

I looked back at all of our happy or silent times together, early morning tea, Christmas baking, walking and chatting or hugging after a long time of not seeing each other.

I realized that I did say, over time, most of the things I meant to say. Almost all of them, in fact. Not all at once, but who cares, I wouldn’t have remembered all of that anyway in one go. But, I did say thank you.

My dad on the other hand, has been chronically ill for almost eight years. Every time I visit him, I know it could be the last time I see him and yet it took me a couple of years to know that whispering a soft goodbye on my way out will not do.

I was not really saying goodbye; deep down, I was secretly hoping he would be around next time I went to see him.

Selfish, perhaps, but I wanted him around because I loved him and thought that saying goodbye would somehow push him toward that threshold most of us fear and don’t know how to handle.

Saying what you have to say to your loved one, who might not be around next time you visit, is a gift.

More than an acknowledgement of their role in your life, saying goodbye is act of gratefulness. It’s not about them or you — but you and them together.

We cannot push ailing or elderly loved ones closer to that invisible-but-real threshold. Now I know that. Life happens around us; it follows its course and we should celebrate every moment we have, and had.

Every time I visit my dad, and the reality of his precarious situation becomes more real than before, I know that I owe him something different than sadness and a long face.

I wished for a longer time with my mom, and my grandparents also. I never got to say goodbye to them. Life tailored it that way, but part of me wanted to shield my children from the experience.

Often parents think they have to protect their children from the sadness of life. It is true that losing loved ones is one of the saddest things, but children should be allowed to honour the process and grow gratefulness from it.

It is much easier to keep good memories alive when we have a chance to acknowledge our loved one’s presence by saying thank you along the way and by saying goodbye when the time comes.

When we find the strength to say goodbye, again and again if we have to, we realize that every time is different. It gives us a better grip when it comes to understanding the mysterious rhythm of life.

I have learned that the many thank yous along the way are more valuable than that final package of soul-ripping thank yous and goodbyes.

I hope I can show my gratefulness for the times I had alongside people I loved, for the things I learned, and for the valleys and hills we crossed together, and teach my sons to carry themselves the same way.

Being aware of the finite enriches us in a way that allows appreciation and proper celebration of beginnings and ends and every day in between.

Originally published as a column in the Saturday edition of the Kamloops Daily News on August 17, 2013 under the same title.

Originally published as a column in the Saturday edition of the Kamloops Daily News on Saturday, August 3, 2013.

My mom had a coffee pot, red with black drawings. Wide-bottomed and with a spout just perfect for pouring, it often spilled while she was making coffee because someone would take her attention away from it for a second. I now suspect that it added a certain something to the whole coffee ritual.

My parents had coffee inside when the weather was cold, rainy or windy, and outside on the old bench sheltered by the grapevine during the summer months.

I used to drink coffee with them until my third year of university or so when I thought coffee made my heart jump and thus I gave it up. Missed it though every time the smell of my mom’s coffee would slither its steamy way into my room when I was visiting my parents.

My dad would ask “Are you sure you don’t want any?” I did, but every time I said “Better not.” I don’t have many regrets but the one I have is having missed one too many coffee times with my parents. It became way too real when my mom was no more.

A couple of years ago I was in one of my friends’ sunny kitchen. She was making coffee and it reminded me of my mom’s coffee, of my parents’ slow-paced coffee breaks and I said yes please when she asked if I wanted some.

The summer sun made patterns on the white table cloth and coffee tasted right.

After that, still in Vancouver, I came to discover tiny coffee shops with walls covered in old wooden panels and tables that had stories polished in them by many. Rainy days were best. I would sit and write when alone, or sit and chat when others joined.

I wondered at life’s ways by writing or chatting, and have become that much more grateful for the luxury of being tucked away to work in a coffee shop where time sits around the table just like good loving people in your life.

Then we moved to Kamloops and with us came the love for coffee. My partner and I sat in many coffee shops and came to love some more than others, but appreciate them all and the people who smile at us from behind the counter.

I sometimes meet with people over coffee and no, you don’t just choose a coffee shop, but the coffee shop for the meeting. Work-related or that hour break we sometimes need with a dear friend, coffee meetings are a good thing; or tea, for those who do not fancy coffee.

Then there’s the coffee we make at home. Cowboy coffee that is. Black, no sugar. And the coffee we make when we camp. One of the best we’ve ever had was at the feet of Black Tusk, near Whistler. Early morning sun was dunking its rays in the coffee pot we were taking turn sipping coffee from.

A few years ago when my parents came over for a visit, my mom brought me a coffee pot like hers. Same size but yellow and with a beautiful drawing of my hometown on it.

It sat in the cupboard for a while, because I was still not a coffee drinker and I could not use it for tea or anything else. It was meant for coffee so it sulked its way into idleness until I started drinking coffee again.

Now we make coffee in it and weekend mornings after breakfast find us on the front porch. If it’s winter we wrap ourselves in blankets. Only heavy rains can chase us in. And not always. There’s a certain beauty in rain and coffee mixed together.

Coffee is, you see, those few special moments you share with someone or just by yourself. It’s also gratefulness for being present in a moment, and you could argue it is a rather simple joy. It is, one that extends way beyond the rim of a pot or mug.

I often meet my partner for coffee and every time has its own flavor. Sometimes we make it a work day and write, other times we celebrate togetherness and the profundity of simple silent moments.

I will continue to be grateful for the memories we weave over coffee around the city we’ve come to love: For its charming coffee shops, for the friends we have made, for the beautiful hills that seem empty but never are, and for all the lakes that jewel themselves like a most amazing pendant around the place we are now calling home.