6 - FUNERALS ARE FOR DANCING - Chapter Three - What Was It About Being Seven?

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Chapter Three – What Was It About Being Seven?

The most wonderful thing happened at my seventh birthday party.  Actually, birthday parties in our house were nearly always just immediate family however, there were times when grandparents, aunts, uncles and/or cousins would join in.  I don’t remember parties where friends were invited.  Being one of six kids, there were always enough people to make it a party.

  

We always got to choose our birthday meal so, depending whose birthday it was, there was a different celebratory menu.  I think mine was steak.  That must have stretched the budget for my parents.  Steak would be my last choice today.  

Mum would have made a special cake.  It was the only time I remember being allowed to drink pop.  Colourful streamers would have been strung and then there was the ice cream to go with the cake.  Back then there was ice cream in a brick form that would be sliced rather than scooped.  Party Brick was a favourite.  It was like Neapolitan ice cream with its three flavours … strawberry, chocolate and vanilla … except vanilla was replaced with a layer of orange sherbet.  It was a family favourite and ‘they’ don’t make sherbet as good as it was in Party Brick.    

I don’t remember Mum ever hiding treasures in the cake as others did.  Probably a good thing for our teeth we didn’t crunch into a coin wrapped in waxed paper.  What we always did was make a wish on our candles as we blew them out.  On my seventh birthday, my wish came true almost instantaneously.  I had wished that our Uncle Bill would be there for my birthday.  No sooner had the candles been snuffed than a knock came at the door and there he was.  It was like magic. 

Later in life, somewhere in my forties, I was on the proverbial shrink’s couch trying to change a needy behaviour that was wanting to be improved.  When I was asked when I thought I’d begun this behaviour my answer shot out right away, “Seven, I was seven.”  I then went on, as I sometimes do, to wonder aloud why I’d said seven. 

“Don’t worry about that,” I was told, “just tell me what was going on in your parent’s life when you were seven.”  After some head scratching, events started to come to mind. 

“Well, my mother’s Dad, my Grampa Tom, died when I was seven … and it was around that time that my mother had a baby die a couple of days after she was born … or was it then that she had a gallbladder operation?”  My dear psychiatrist just sat quietly and waited for the lights to go off, which they did big time.  I remember having the sensation of being drilled back into my chair and ‘getting it’.  How could a parent give the attention needed by a child at times of such stress?  So, it’s when our parents are distracted by the stressors of life and we feel ignored that we start behaviours that later need to be changed.  Just an aside - I believe that sooner or later most of us need to do our ‘work’ on the couch to make sense out of ourselves and our lives.  

Here I was in my forties with two young adopted children who’d been there when I was dealing with a threatening pregnancy followed by the birth of our son, Dana, who lived all but ten days of his life in hospital for the short eleven months and four days he was given on this earth.  Had I been there emotionally for my young children’s needs during all those ups and downs?  I doubted that very much.  Physically, I’d been there as much as was humanly possible, visiting the hospital during the kid’s afternoon naps and after they went to bed at night.    

It’s pretty easy to forgive parents when such a light shines itself onto one's psyche.  So why do I tell you this now?  Am I getting ahead of my own life?  I think it’s important to know that my inner being felt ignored from the age of seven.  I believe that feeling would temper my feelings into the future especially when you think I was the youngest child of three for five years before the second set of three children were born bringing our grand sibling total to six.  That feeling of being ignored did not disappear for decades … maybe it still exists to this day in spite of the fact I learned from whence it came about thirty years ago?  Whoever said life would be easy?  For me, life is a continuing game of mental gymnastics ... always trying to get it right.

Emails welcome at funeralsarefordancing@rogers.com.  

5 - FUNERALS ARE FOR DANCING - Chapter Two - "You'd Better Be Home Before the Street Lights Come On ..."

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“… if you know what’s good for you!”

When I read a memoir I really enjoy reading about the author's childhood memories.  Assuming many of you are the same, I’ll give you a taste of being me as a kid.   

Sweet innocence.  That’s how I would describe the first decade of my life in ‘The Beaches’ area of Toronto … or is it ‘The Beach’.  Has that controversy ever been settled?  I’m sticking with The Beaches because that’s what we called it back in my time there.   

Many summer days had us, where else, down at the beach at the foot of Kew Gardens.  We’d pack a lunch and be gone from breakfast until supper.  No sun tan lotion, no protective headgear and just about freezing our feet and calves off in Lake Ontario.  It was never warm enough to swim, besides, we had our marching orders from Mum and they included, “Only go into the water up to your knees”.  

We stuck by that rule probably more because of the icy temperature of the water and not so much because we were as sweet as we might have tried to be.  It took until September for Lake Ontario to become remotely bearable for going any deeper than our knees.    

Our sand castles, by the end of the day, were something to behold.  Mainly it was the three of us … my two older sisters, Gina, Jacqueline and myself and sometimes a friend or two from our block.  We also loved digging deep holes to see how long it took to get to water.  Of course, the closer you are to the shoreline, the sooner you get to your water goal.

If we weren’t down at Kew Beach we were with our skipping ropes on the street or playing hide-and-go-seek or a multitude of other childhood games.  Will we ever forget our neighbourhood friend, Esther, getting her toes run over by a car when she walked out onto the road AND between two parked cars while reading a gripping comic book?  Probably it was Katy Keene, Archie, Little Lulu or Donald Duck, or, or, or … that had distracted Esther to the point of what could have been fatal.  

On hot, hot days we’d be sitting on the curb waiting for the iceman to arrive.  Yes, we had an icebox back then.  The ice man would use his ice pick to break off chunks of ice for us before making a delivery to our house.  Other delivery men back then included those who delivered bread, milk, and coal.  Some of them, including the iceman, drove horse a buggy. 

It always amazed me how they’d throw a disk out onto the road to stop the horse from running off.  I could have picked up that small weight so, how the heck did it stop a huge horse?  The explanation was something about the bit in the mouth of the horse which hurt if they tried to pull that weight.

Let’s not forget the ice cream man with their tinkling bell warning mothers and fathers to get their dimes ready.  A bag of popcorn or peanuts from the Popcorn Man was also a dime.  I can still hear the whistle from the kettle that kept the melted butter for our popcorn. 

We three girls were always into crafts and making things ourselves.  I guess that’s pretty much what we had to do … if you didn’t have it, then make it.  Mum wasn’t too pleased when we made our drum majorette sticks.  Apparently, one broom handle divided into three just perfectly for our sister’s marching band.  Imagine the look on Mum’s face when she couldn’t find her broom but did find the three of us marching up and down our backyard.  We’d even made pom-poms for our shoes out of red and white tissue paper.  If I remember correctly, red and white were the colours of our school, Norway Public on Kingston Road.      

Dad made us gizmos for doing cork work.  He just used four nails and an empty wooden thread spool.  Somehow we came into a huge spool of baker’s twine.  It was that fine string used to tie around a box of baked goods.  We worked that baker’s string into a piece long enough to reach from the front room, upstairs and into the back bedroom.  Did we stop there?  Oh no, we girls didn’t stop until we could stretch that handmade cord around our block.  Can you imagine our excitement when we got to the point where two sisters at either end could see each other having reached three sides of the block?  

Speaking of ‘around the block’, do all kids feel a sense of freedom and responsibility when they are allowed to ride their trikes around the block?  I mostly remember how it felt to roller skate around the block.  We had a bit of a downhill on one side of our block coming down Elmer Avenue from Kingston Road.  The feel of the sidewalk cracks rhythmically vibrating my entire body sent chills of excitement through me.    Of course, the roller skating would naturally lead to skinned knees.  They could be nasty, especially when you woke up in the morning to find both knees stuck to the sheets. 

Our house on Rhyl Avenue was the typical semi-detached, red brick style of the area.  A very small yard both back and front which was connected by an alley-way between houses.  The house had two storeys and a cellar.  Remember the mention of a coalman?  There was a bin in the cellar that received a multitude of burlap bags filled with coal when said coal man made his delivery.  A basement window opened and the bags were dumped into a waiting bin creating an enormous amount of coal dust in the process.  We liked to go to the basement with our Dad each night after supper when he stoked the furnace and removed the ‘clinkers’.  

Cellar aside, we actually played outside all day, most days.  I think only a hard rain would have stopped us but not if it was a summer storm.  Then we’d don our bathing suits and swim in the deepest rainwater next to the curb.  We could catch quite a current where the water rushed towards the sewer grate.  Can you imagine?  We lived through it, too.

There was a pretty scary time in my life the summer after Grade One.  I’d had teeth extracted and, as it turned out, I proved to be allergic to the gas used to put me out.  For days after the extraction, I could not swallow.  That meant no food or drink.  I just couldn’t do it in spite of the pleading parents.  On the third day of not taking in nourishment and not swallowing the doctor was called in.  After the doctor left I remember a very angry father trying to force feed me a gleaming saucer of Golden Syrup.  I guess my sweet tooth had not been removed … in fact, I still seem to have that dastardly tooth.  

I did not know what I’d done to make my Dad so angry with me.  I’ve since learned, from my years on 'the shrink's couch' that anger, fear, and anxiety are like brothers and travel together.  So, when you’re angry, ask yourself what are you afraid or anxious about and, when afraid ask, what am I anxious or angry about and so on.  The doctor had told Mum and Dad that if I didn’t take in food or drink that night I’d have to go to the hospital the next day.  Now that I’m a parent I know I’d have been incredibly worried under the same set of circumstances.  My grown up kids will tell you I must have been worried a lot when they were growing up.  i.e. angry Mummy!  Actually, they scared me half to death a lot but that’s another story for another time ... perhaps under another name.   

The night that followed the threatened force-feeding of the sticky syrup had me awake feeling incredibly thirsty.  I can still remember going into the dark bathroom and drinking three cups filled to the brim with water.  Then, of course, I threw it all back up, however, that was the turning point needed to have my body heal.  My older sisters still remember hearing my screams during this critical time when they were outside playing.  Apparently part of my treatment involved a needle jabbed painfully into a bum cheek.  And yes, doctors made regular house calls back then.  And, yes again, the whole block knew something painful was happening to Marlene.      

Wouldn’t it have been nice if, as kids, we understood when our parents appear angry with us it could be because of their love for us they are worried about our well-being?  Would we have even understood such a concept as the traveling brothers Anger, Fear and Anxiety?

As I leave recording these particular memories of earlier times it’s only fair to say I do remember being a somewhat solitary kid who often lived in her head.  Was I born with a vivid imagination or was that how it developed?  I spent many hours alone in my bedroom, just daydreaming.  To this day I need alone time just to reflect and be quiet.  My nighttime dreams were and are quite vivid and at one point in my life I could return to an unfinished dream and complete it the following night.  Sure wish I still had that talent today.

 This would be the pram spoken of in the previous chapter however, Artie would have been the rider in that part of the story.  This is me who got the ride around five years before my baby brother was born.

 Is it any wonder those knees were often skinned?  There's a song that goes with this in spite of the fact it came out much later than this photo.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cvIjQSFLb3U  

The proud neighbourhood gang with their snowman.  He's wearing our Dad's navy hat and those were the days when we actually had chunks of coal to use for facial features.  Esther, the friend who had her toes run over, is standing third from the right.  Gina and then Jacqueline are to the right again from Esther.  That's me sitting on the left.  Hate to say I don't remember who any of the boys are but I look to be pretty young here  

Apparently, Dad was called up by the Navy when Mum was in the hospital delivering me.  She sure doesn't look pregnant here so this must have been on his return.  They are standing in front of our Rhyl Avenue home.  Yes, Dad, I do see that cigarette in your hand.  

I'm the tallest here (don't often get to say that) in our backyard.  My friend, Judy, is giving that shy smile and that's my brother Artie in front.    

Emails welcome at funeralsarefordancing@rogers.com.        

4 - FUNERALS ARE FOR DANCING - Chapter One - I Want to Be a Mummy

I was just a kid when I knew.  I knew it for certain.  It was as clear as the little pug nose on my five-year-old face.  The desire to be a mother first struck in 1949 while watching my mother when she went into a sort of reverie.  Wherever it was she went at breastfeeding time, I just knew, I wanted to go there, too.  While she cuddled my baby brother, Artie, I mimicked her moves with Cuddles, my much-loved teddy bear.  Trying to feed Cuddles only tickled and made me giggle.  I could not get to where Mum was but I did recognize, in those nursing moments, my yearning to be a mother. 

When I think about Mum and me feeding our babies, everything in the living room of our Rhyl Avenue home in ‘The Beaches’ area of Toronto comes clearly into my mind’s eye.  I can see the swirling pattern on the burgundy carpet and feel the prickly green couch on my skin.  The bubbles from Mum’s iron-rich stout tickled my nose as I breathed in its pungent aroma.  It was my job, at breastfeeding time, to fetch our drinks.  I was sometimes allowed chocolate milk on these occasions and on this day it was particularly smooth and delicious.  

Mum would have had Mario Lanza playing in the background.  One of her favourites back around that time was … “Be my love, for no one else can end this yearning; this need that you and you alone create.  Just fill my arms the way you’ve filled my dreams ... there’ll be no one but you for me, eternally.  If you will be my love …” The words do make a wonderful love song to sing to a baby.  However, for Mum, the words "there'll be no one but your for me" were not accurate.  Artie was the fourth child of the eventual six children produced by my parents.

(Mario sings here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8o8SZng55T0)

Watching my mother’s face made me long for whatever it was she had.  The only way to become a mother at that age was to imitate Mum’s every move.  So, I did just that, either with a doll or with my precious teddy, Cuddles.  We took care of our babies together.  Whatever Artie got, Cuddles got too.  When Mum nursed, I nursed.  Cuddles was my absolute favourite pretend-baby but, he didn’t do well in the bath, he just took too long to dry.  The story goes that I would sit under the clothes line waiting for him to dry while clutching a paw  in one hand and sucking my thumb on the other.  That would have been the thumb that tasted like brown sugar.        

So, when it was bath time for Artie, my doll came into play for me.  Side-by-side Mum and I walked our charges in their carriages or had our babies take their afternoon naps outside on the veranda in the fresh air.

Perhaps because I enjoy movies so much when I think of my life in earlier times I see it in movie scenes.  I’ve often created this book’s movie opening in my mind.  The credits start to roll over a sepia coloured background.  As the camera pulls back we realize we are looking at a helium-filled balloon.  The camera continues to pull back and we see that the balloon is tied to the handle of a five-year-old girl’s doll carriage.  Beside the girl is her mother pushing a larger carriage.  

We watch them from behind as they continue their walk along a sidewalk and approach their home.  Together they lift their swaddled babies out of their prams and carry them inside their home.  At this point, the opening credits have completed and colour has been introduced to the scene which picks up where I started my story, in their living room at feeding time.  The girl now clutches her balloon along with her teddy.  Her balloon is green.


Emails welcomed at funeralsarefordancing@rogers.com

3 - FUNERALS ARE FOR DANCING - A Scene From a Funeral

I have made death a messenger of joy to thee.  

Wherefore dost thou grieve?

I made the light to shed on thee its splendor.  

Why dost thou veil thyself therefrom?”

It was a clear, crisp, spring day in late March of 1983 when we buried our infant son, Dana.  What if I told you it was one of the happiest days of my life?  If you’re surprised to read such words try to imagine how astonished I was to feel a sense of peace and yes, joy, fill my soul on that day.

He was but eleven months and four days when his body could no longer withstand the many assaults.  His organs began to fail as a result of damaged lungs.  “It’s kind of like the domino effect,” we were told, “one damaged organ affects another and so on.”  We knew this day was coming and had preferred death for our son rather than him living his life in a body whose mind had been stolen away almost three months earlier when a cardiac arrest wiped out all hope of a normal life.  Had Dana lived, he would have spent whatever precious time was allowed him, in a vegetative state.  We certainly did not want that for our son.  We also had come to realize Dana’s fate was out of our hands.  

Many of us can imagine all too well the sorrow that would engulf the hearts and minds of grieving parents at the news of their child’s passing.  So, for Dana, we planned his funeral in advance with the hope of demonstrating to ourselves and to our guests a glimpse of the joy suggested in those introductory words.  

We did not know how our baby’s inevitable demise might affect our emotions and our ability to take charge at a time when we may be too emotional to function.  

We searched our minds and hearts for how to portray the joyful aspect of death and put our ideas down on paper.  We consulted close and trusted friends for their input.  We then filed those plans away and wondered when and if we might have to put them to use. 

As life would have it, we did have to put those funeral plans into play when on the 28th of March in 1983 the call came early one morning from The Hospital for Sick Children in Toronto informing us that our dear Dana had indeed left this world. 

We had decided to use a nearby funeral home but only as a gathering spot for our guests.  Remember we were trying to focus on the joyful promise of death and funeral parlours had never particularly evinced a sense of joy within either of us.

Upon entering the chapel room it was not festooned with flowers as one might expect.  We had asked that instead of flowers those wishing to, might consider donations to The Hospital for Sick Children (commonly referred to as Sick Kids’) or a charity of their choice.  In spite of the fact our funeral director had advised that our guests would still send flowers, not one blossom had arrived.  Our directors had also asked, “Perhaps an arrangement of flowers from you, Dana’s parents, would be appropriate for your son’s casket?”  

“No, but thank you,” we had said, “we would like balloons and our baby’s teddy bear to take the position of honour”.  You can well imagine an eyebrow or two might have lifted.   

So, what caught the eye of those entering?  At the front of an otherwise stark room sat the tiny white casket with Dana’s bandaged bear sitting atop. The teddy clutched three helium-filled balloons … one yellow, one red and one green.

How these keepsakes look today.  

  

As the guests arrived they signed a guest book and seated themselves in one of the pews.  At the appointed hour we arose and made our way out the door and into our cars.  Dana’s casket took up every inch of space on the front seat of a black limousine beside the driver.  The teddy bear was still securely positioned on top with the three balloons. 

Guests at the funeral parlour.

Guests at the memorial.

Dana’s father, Michael, and I and our two small children, Emma, age four, and Ben, just turned two, all sat in the back seat for the final family-of-five ride together.  

There was barely an inch between the casket and the steering wheel which made it necessary for the driver to drive at a slower pace than normal in a funeral procession.  It must have been quite the sight for those passing by.  They could see clearly it was a funeral procession without a hearse and the lead limo displayed brightly coloured balloons.  People stopped and stared as this odd sight passed.  

My friend, Shar, (I’m certain her name will come up again) later said, “I was about midway in the procession. When I looked ahead and back, it appeared to be very long.  One might have thought it was the funeral of a dignitary”.  

Our first stop was at Mount Pleasant Cemetery.  We gathered around the open grave where prayers were recited and Sacred Writings Read.  One of the prayers said was also reproduced on a card that every guest received as a memento. This meaningful prayer spoke directly to our desire for baby Dana. 

        “O God!  Rear this little babe in the bosom of Thy love and give it milk from  the breast of Providence.  Cultivate this fresh plant in the rose garden of Thy love  and nurture it by showers from the clouds of Providence.  Make it a child of the  Kingdom and lead it to the divine world.  Thou art powerful and kind!  

         Thou art the Giver, the Bestower, Whose blessings transcend all else!”

We had kept in mind children when making Dana’s funeral plans.  He was, after all, a baby and we knew there would be children present.  The youngsters around the grave got in close, as children would, so as not to miss anything.  It was noticeable when the following passage was read everyone closed in as did the two funeral directors.  It was interesting and heartwarming to see these words act as a magnet to our families and friends.  Here is how that somewhat magnetic passage begins.

“And now concerning thy question regarding the soul of man and its survival after death.  Know thou of a truth that the soul, after its separation from the body, will continue to progress until it attaineth the presence of God, in a state and condition which neither the revolution of ages and centuries, nor the changes and chances of this world, can alter.  It will endure as long as the Kingdom of God, His sovereignty, His dominion and power will endure.  It will manifest the signs of God and His attributes, and will reveal His loving kindness and bounty.   … The world beyond is as different from this world as this world is different from that of the child while still in the womb of its mother.  … Wert thou to ponder in thine heart the behavior of the Prophets of God thou wouldst assuredly and readily testify that there must needs be other worlds besides this world. …

Should you wish to read the entire passage go to http://reference.bahai.org/en/t/b/GWB/gwb-81.html. 

The day was quiet, the wind was still so these beautiful words were able to reach the ears and hearts of those who had gathered to support us as we said our physical goodbye to Dana.  

Our two-year-old son, Ben, had managed to scoop Dana’s teddy from atop the casket and wound its key.  This old man, he played one, he played knick-knack on my thumb, with a knick knack paddy whack give a dog a bone.  This old man came rolling home …  The tune tinkled its way into the cool spring air where the notes and those sacred words drifted into the atmosphere along with many of the hearts that had opened to the moment.

My heart was most definitely opened to receive those healing words.  What did it take in life to get me to the moment of so-called separation from this precious infant to be able to face it with an opened heart that was filled with joy?

Hopefully, the chapters to follow will help you, as well as me, understand how I got there from where I started.

Emails welcomed at funeralsarefordancing@rogers.com.  

2 - FUNERALS ARE FOR DANCING - Table of Contents

PART I

Chapter 1 I WANT TO BE A MUMMY!
Chapter 2  "YOU'D BETTER BE HOME BEFORE THE STREET LIGHTS COME ON ..."
Chapter 3  WHAT WAS IT ABOUT BEING SEVEN?
Chapter 4  WHERE DID MY CREATIVE BENT COME FROM? 

... more childhood chapters being added

following to be revised
Chapter 2 IS THIS THE MAN TO FATHER MY CHILDREN?

Chapter 3 MEANWHILE BACK AT ‘THE COURTSHIP’

Chapter 4 HOW’S YOUR BELLY FOR SPOTS?

Chapter 5 HEALING OF THE PARENTAL RELATIONSHIP

Chapter 6 MUM’S BURIAL

Chapter 7 LIFE GOES ON

Chapter 8 MEANWHILE BACK AT THE WEDDED BLISS

Chapter 9 I MEAN IT!  I REALLY WANT TO BE A MOTHER!

Chapter 10 MORE ABOUT THE MARRIAGE BREAK-UP

Chapter 11 IT’S A BOY!

Chapter 12 BUT I WAS NEVER TOLD ABOUT THE SORROW

Chapter 13 MEETING MICHAEL

Chapter 14 THE HONEYMOONS ARE OVER

Chapter 15 BECOMING A BAHÁ’Í

Chapter 16 WHAT NEXT?  TO PARENT OR NOT TO PARENT?

Chapter 17 AND, LIFE GOES ON … AGAIN

Chapter 18 NURTURING NATURE

Chapter 19 I’M WHAT?

PART II

Chapter 20 THE FIRST TRYING TRI-MESTER                                                              Chapter 21 WHAT ROSE GARDEN?                                                                            Chapter 22 I HAD A DREAM                                                                                     Chapter 23 a work in progress …  

1 - FUNERALS ARE FOR DANCING - An Introduction

There is a book inside of me I've been carrying around for a few decades.  It needs to come out!  For my lifestyle and age, (I turned 73 in August) I've decided to blog it, one chapter at a time. 

Much of the story is already written but, like a lot of writers, I work best with a deadline.  This self-imposed deadline is what's needed to get me off my keyster and onto the keyboard.  Now, doesn't that bring an odd picture to mind?  

Speaking of pictures, photos will be sprinkled in where appropriate.  That, because of the expense, could not be done in a published edition.    

My plan is to clean up at least two chapters a week for posting while adding chapters on to the story for future posting.  Next to be posted will be my Table of Contents which, as mentioned, will be a work in progress.  So, for those who like to see what's coming up, you might want to check in from time to time with said Table.   

Because I see my life in movie scenes, I'd like this to be fairly interactive so, with that in mind, I'll be posting links wherever possible to songs of my life and for any partial Writings I've quoted.

Thanks go to a publisher who has shown interest in seeing my completed manuscript but somehow, I just cannot seem to get it together for you.  Could it be fear of rejection?  Hopefully, my story will unveil much of my inner being to all of us.  

  

  

  

Beth McKenty (a.k.a. Betty White) Spent Thirteen Years Living in Iqaluit

And, oh my, did dear Beth make a difference.  She blazed a colourful trail others may find difficult to follow.  

I've been here, living in Baha'i House in Iqaluit, since May 20/15.  By the time we leave our temporary position as custodians to this historical-to-Baha'is house we (husband Michael) and I will be six days short of a four month experience we will surely never forget.  While here a lot has happened—an understatement if there ever was one.  

Some of you have been wondering why I have not posted since early July.  It would take a book to explain.  If I thought by coming north I’d be escaping our overly-busy life in the south … well, I thought wrong.  It’s been crazily busy in Iqaluit and never seems to stop.  

We had visitors for a total of just over a month.  One of the sets of visitors was a lovely mother and daughter just trying to figure out if they could live in Iqaluit and become the new custodians of the house with the revolving doors.  Maybe they don’t exactly revolve, it just feels like it.  The good news is that their temporary stay proved successful and they will return in a few days to live in and care for Baha’i House and all that entails.  

Much of our time has been spent in readying the space for those brave hearted souls.  While here, checking out the environs, we worked together to make space for the mother-daughter duo and their belongings.  While performing this task I’ve learned a lot about how the Arctic Youth Art Initiative (AYAI) came into being.  It was through Beth McKenty this inspiring project was launched.  

I came upon a document written by Beth herself that tells how one day a couple of young lads were throwing ‘stones’ in the direction of Baha’i House.  Beth ‘kindly’ explains that the lads where trying to get their ‘stones’ to go over the house but were coming dangerously close to the window.  I say ‘kindly’ because since I’ve been here rocks, not stones, have come hurtling through a window and scared the heck of this writer who was home alone at the time.  You may remember me saying in my last blog that I would Zentangle one of those dangerous projectiles?   

The coloured rock was thrown at Baha’i House in 2014.

In July of this year three rocks came through a back bedroom window 

and, as you can see, I’ve lived up to my Zentangled-rock promise.

Perhaps the new custodians will put colour to the remaining rocks?  

Meanwhile back in 1999 after Beth first took up residence she invited the two sharp-shooters in for hot chocolate with marshmallows.  While the lads sipped their tasty treat Beth put out paint palettes dotted with the primary colours.  They were shy at first but soon started making colourful passes with the brush on high-quality paper.  Beth believed in using only good-quality paper.  

It must have been a happy experience because word spread and Beth soon became known as Iqaluit’s ‘Paint Lady’.  And the doors of Baha’i House started to revolve.  Much, but not all, of the artwork produced has been kept in Baha’i House.  I’ve managed to take seven overstuffed cartons down to three-four by placing any artwork with a signed name into one carton, important archival papers re AYAI in two more cartons.  The work continues and I’m still finding amazing pieces.  

With the signed artwork and a few more careful sorts, the not-as-young-as-they-once-were artists can perhaps be found and their precious pieces returned to them.  A daunting task that I may not have time to complete.  A dresser drawer is tightly packed with unnamed art pieces most with Arctic themes many of which are a depiction of an inukshuk (in the likeness of a human), a proud symbol of this area of the world.  I plan on returning home with these unsigned pieces and will make them into greeting cards, gift tags and bookmarks.   These items will be sold with the money earned returning for what's needed in Baha’i House.   

Unsigned art pieces from AYAI will be turned into items

for sale to generate funds for use by Baha’i House.

My admiration for Beth, a person I have never met, or so I thought, has but grown since living here and trying to lead one of her well-known art classes.  Somehow there’s a difference in the subject matter of the kids’ work these days that is obvious when looking at the art from classes Beth led.  How did she encourage the young artists into replicating themes of the north in their touching pieces? 

Recently, I made a wonderful discovery that meant a lot to me.  I came upon some of Beth’s papers that indicated she had attended a Ruhi (you can ask, if you need to) Conference in Montreal back in May of 2000 … I paused … wasn’t I at that conference?  Next came three pieces of paper that attendees had signed thanking Beth for their pieces of art from AYAI.  I spotted my thank you and am now anxious to check out my files when we return to our home.  

So, I have indeed had the honour of meeting Beth and more than by phone, which I’ve done twice since living in Baha’i House.  Next blog I shall share my discovery about little Betty White, a.k.a. Beth McKenty.