Although life is sometimes 'crazy making', we often waste a lot of precious energy worrying about things that never happen. Thus it becomes more important every day to turn off that nagging voice of fear inside of us. This little story sums it up - everyday miracles do happen in unexpected ways!

Yesterday as I was facing the sea, hanging my new bright-fringed blanket on the clothesline, an image of my father's heavy cotton plaid shirt, came to me in a flash. Today is the first day of summer, yet in my mind, I was transported to a winter's night deep in the heart of the Canadian prairies. The hot sun was not beating down that day, rather it was a time when snow excitedly drifted and swirled over a path underneath our clothesline. Enough clothesline to hang the wash for six kids and a mom and a dad!

While the snow piled high over my footprints beside sheets and soggy blue jeans, my mother sits at the Booker coal stove in the living room. She seems to absorb all the heat as she rocks in her squeaking chair. She is really waiting for the fire to catch so she can return to her usual spot -a foot behind her-directly below what now has become the 'indoor clothesline'.

My young mind sags with the weight of the piles of wet laundry as I carry stacks of clothes back and forth. My sister meets me at the door and places them over the banister and anywhere she can find an unused space within the small house. Careful now! Don't let the heat out!

On that swirling day, I was hanging the last load, with much more to do and no line to do it with. The end was near and I had "doubled-up" as much as I could. Within the memory, I can still feel the dampness of those clothes. My grown-up back now aches in the sea breeze, but I'm grateful that my clothes can be draped for the circulating air and not double layered for lack of space and wooden pegs.

The next day, I had to bring these clothes in from the outdoors to dry even further. In my haste to be done, my already frozen fingers grabbed the arm of my father's shirt and gave it a yank.  I was fully expecting the whole thing to lift. Instead, only the sleeve was in my hand. My father would be furious! He only had three shirts, including the Sunday, going-to-Ukrainian-weddings-shirt. Oh, my God! The SLEEVE was in my hand. I freeze. In that precise second, the moon cleared another path through the sky. It beamed me a message through the storm. "You are Daddy's little girl, his petite fille. Nothing will happen to you".

I wished it was true, but I could not listen! I know better. I can already imagine his booming voice, "If you kids had any "G.D." sense you'd know better." (There's no sin worse than using the Lord's name in vain to a Catholic boy born in France). I quiver inside, now even colder than the outside air. Can I pretend nothing has happened? I stare at his flannel arm in my right hand. I think up thoughts to protect me from his screaming.  "It's not my fault!" My inner mind talks to my bare stiff fingers. "Let him fly into a rage," I think as I toss the arm amongst the icy pile. "I don't care. Maybe it'll grow back in the warmth of the living room. I'll close my ears!"

 I slowly follow the path past the flickering light from the coal oil lamps in the main window. The last huge pile of laundry rests on my left arm. I reach for the handle on the back door and push my way in, stomping my feet to get rid of most of the snow. The screen door slams against my heels.

 My mother hollers, "Thank you" to the sound. I say nothing. I drag my cold heart further into the darkness of the kitchen. Kick off my boots across the Winnipeg Tribune newspaper. Walk in my stocking feet to unload my arms onto the living room couch. Each step of the way, I'm thinking about how to break the news and gathering the courage to show mother what I've done. Finally, I grab the culprit sleeve from the middle of the pile and frantically wave it at her.

She laughs and says, "I'll sew that back on when it dries."

 

Janit Bianic is a life coach and videographer. Contact her at  www.missclutterbuster.ca
email: janitb@mars.ark.com

 

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