Here We Go Again

Once again, campaign signs are popping up on lawns and along highways. Between municipal, provincial, and federal elections it feels as though one barely ends when another begins.

As if we didn’t have enough elections of our own, Canadians also closely follow U.S. campaigns. No wonder it seems like we never get a break.

In Alberta, candidates are currently asking us to put our confidence in them. They smile and wave and knock on doors and try to convince us that they will represent us well.

I’m always conflicted as to whether I should vote for the party I favor even if I don’t like the local candidate, or vote for the candidate I feel a connection to if I don’t like the party they represent.

I wish we could do away with political parties altogether. Politicians could act as educators – explaining issues and options. Online referendums could be used to regularly poll citizens to find out what “the voice of the people” actually is, and a few elected representatives could work together to put those results into practice. I’m sure that would cost less than private jets and committees all the other nonsense we pay for.

Sometimes I wonder if it matters who I vote for since it seems like once elected, they just do their own thing or whatever their party tells them to do.

But my conscience won’t let me avoid the polls. As a citizen of a democracy it is my right and duty to both speak up and vote.  So here we go again – bring on the campaigns.

Past and Present

St. Patrick’s Day is a week away.  It’s not a day I get too excited about – I just make sure my kids are wearing green underwear so they don’t get pinched and we’re good to go.

Recently, however, I was bitten by the Family History bug.  I’ve become particularly interested in researching my mother’s side.  My Grandma Olive was adopted so we don’t know much about her biological parents, but I have learned that her father was part Irish – Patrick O’Neil was his grandfather.

So what do you know?  I’ve got a wee bit o’ Irish in me after all!

There’s something addicting about genealogical research.  When you find a record with names, dates, and places, stories begin to form and relationships develop – no matter that you’ve lived decades, centuries, or oceans apart.

My Grandma Olive’s parents were married with five children.  When they separated, the father took his three sons and the mother, Annie, took her two baby girls – though she was soon unable to provide for them and had to place them in an orphanage.  When Olive was three she went to live with a couple who later adopted her.

I truly appreciate Olive’s adoptive parents who gave her a good home, but my heart aches for Annie, my biological great-grandmother who had to give away her babies.  I’m drawn to her – and I’m grateful for every bit of information I can find to piece her life together.

And so I urge you to record your own family histories and share them on websites like Ancestry, Family Search, and My Heritage so that those searching for their past, like me, can find it.

Misery Loves Company

At the end of January we took our son to Edmonton for a long-awaited dental procedure.  Because of his asthma and the possible complications of general anesthesia, it needed to happen at the Stollery Children’s Hospital.

When we got there, I was amazed at the number of children going in for surgery.  Dressed in yellow and white-striped pajama bottoms and green hospital gowns with numbing cream taped to their hands, they sat on parents’ laps and played electronic games.

It’s an emotional thing to wait with a child before surgery.  Fear of the unknown coupled with the knowledge that every now and then something goes wrong is an effective recipe for anxiety.  But, for some reason, seeing so many others there made me feel better.  I guess misery does love company.

Finally, we were taken to a lonely hallway on the third floor where our son happily climbed onto his gurney.  I kissed him, told him he was “my best little boy”, and quickly moved behind him so he couldn’t see my tears.  Seven minutes later my husband came out of the Operating Room and reported he was asleep.  I dried my eyes and we went for lunch.

When we came back to wait for the dentist’s report, another mother was kissing her infant daughter “goodbye”.  Watching her cry made me start up again.  Our eyes met and I said, “It’s hard, isn’t it?”  We both chuckled through our tears and I think she felt better knowing someone understood her pain.

Sometimes, we just need to know we’re not alone.