My sister had a pogo stick. She used it a LOT! The whole house would shake whenever she jumped around the kitchen. We had a BIG kitchen in the farmhouse, with plenty of room for jumping and playing, working and cooking. So much happened in our kitchen, the heart of our home.
One day, we had the good fortune of laying a new vinyl floor. I was a kid, so I have no idea how much Mom and Dad skimped and saved to get this heavy duty vinyl. I remember it as grey, rather plain, but new.
Mom was excited and happy, until, that is, she noticed many small moon-shaped cuts in the newly installed surface. My sister had used that pogo stick so much that the rubber on the bottom had worn away. The bare metal bit into the flooring with every jump. I can imagine Mom cried. I would. There was no money for another new floor. We lived with little cuts in the vinyl forever.
Mom taught me to count my blessings. Sometimes she would be discouraged. She would feel it when the community sewing circle met at a house with new cupboards, for example. Daddy built the farmhouse cupboards when I was a toddler, homemade and serviceable, but not oak, not store bought.
She would feel that difference in fortune until she turned her thoughts to those in our community whose cupboard doors where broken and unreplaced, or who had no floor covering at all, but instead lived with gaping holes in their floor boards. She could choose which way to look, up the socio-economic ladder or down.
We lived on a farm, and had plenty to eat. The old house was cold in winter, but we had lots of wood to burn. We had hand-me-downs, and skills for creating what we needed. We knew how to make do. We were doing okay. We were fortunate.
We were fortunate even when good fortune meant that when new kitchen flooring was eventually installed, years later, there were bits and pieces left over. Daddy used it to fashion a lovely piecemeal floor for the bathroom. He didn’t think about how moist the bathroom would be, or how quickly the seams in his hard work would start peeling up.
They lived with a peeling bathroom floor for quite some time. Mom counted her blessings, as well as she could until the day she died, on December 7, 1995. This week our family remembers Daddy on his birthday, and Mom on her death day. We are so fortunate to have had these parents, this history, and these stories to share.
In all my years of listening to people’s troubles, I often heard, “It could be worse.” Yes, it could be. But, I’d say, don’t downplay your own misfortune. It hurts. It really hurts, especially this time of year, as Christmas approaches in 2023, and you don’t have money to pay the rent or mortgage at the same time as groceries, let alone Christmas presents or winter tires on the car. Yes, it could be worse, but sometimes I wonder how much worse things could possibly be for some.
I count my blessings. I see how fortunate I am. I am grateful. Not all of my good fortune is luck, or at least not totally luck. I have worked and saved, as has my husband. But at the same time, I am so fortunate/lucky to be healthy, to be capable of working and earning enough, to have been born in Canada with Canada Pension and Old Age Security. I am fortunate/lucky to have lived through decades of low interest rates. And so lucky to have the family that I have, and to live in the community where I live.
My heart aches for those I know who aren’t as fortunate, and for those around the world who face this holiday season in a war zone, or those even here who live out of their cars or in tents, as the snow falls around us. My heart aches, even as it swells with gratitude.
Dream Bringer’s Studio 