Doug, a seasoned performer and five-time London Music Hall of Fame inductee, is no stranger to the spotlight. I also knew that, as a certified yoga instructor, he’d bring something naturally inspiring to share – especially for those who would feel uncomfortable doing so. He didn’t disappoint.

Doug began with a powerful statement: “Rob taught me how to play guitar.”

Doug’s ‘Flying V’ Guitar – photo by Deborah Alice Zuskan

Coming from a true artist like Doug, that says as much about the teacher as it does the student. While you can make a guitar “talk,” the soul isn’t so easily bent. Real teaching requires a more strategic way of being between giver and receiver.

Plus, Rob was a great role model: showing up at band practices within a day of attending another cancer treatment. Why? To him it meant more than commitment; it meant obligation especially for those musicians he called “brothers.”

“Our work and our lives become more meaningful when they are in harmony with who we are.”
~ Denise Pelley, HOF Inductee

Rob’s son Sean, also a musician, offered a moving example. While playing ‘Let It Be’ by the Beatles – and searching his soul for peace – he began to feel the comforting presence of his parents:

“And when the night is cloudy,
There is still a light that shines on me,
Shine until tomorrow, let it be.”
~ The Beatles

Watch “Let It Be” by The Beatles

Rob’s daughter Carrie shared her thankfulness with how he nurtured his relationships with his six grandchildren. He would never have pushed them, but always supported their interests… leaving behind cherished memories for each of them, and for Jackie, his devoted wife.

Doug recalled how Rob took him under his wing and treated him like family — teaching him guitar every day when riding the bus. He ended his tribute with these heartfelt words:

“He was a warm light in the world, and his kind heart and deep spirit will be fondly remembered.”

Doug continues to carry that light forward. His latest project, Beatles in Blue, re-imagines Beatles classics with the blues . It was a bold move… one that may have risked fan loyalty. But, staying the same just wasn’t an option. After all, the Beatles were masters of change.

We also spoke about the evolving landscape for independent musicians. Since the pandemic, even now days, venues have closed, audiences have stayed home, even as live music very nearly died.

Today, artists rely heavily on streaming platforms like Spotify and Apple. But the returns are minimal. According to Public Television (Detroit), it takes approximately 800,000 streams to earn just $15,000 per year.

So where’s the good news?

Listen to “Drive My Car – Beatles in Blue” by Doug Varty

The 2024 Polaris Music Prize winner for Canadian album of the year (Think the Grammys.) and second-time recipient, Jeremy Dutcher, offered a hopeful path forward:
collaborate, support each other, and get creative. Have more of a ‘Do It Yourself’ (DIY) attitude.
Plus buy some merch. Show up to gigs. Be human. Care.

Doug and his band did just that with Beatles in Blue, offering audiences something fresh — rooted in love for the music and a willingness to grow with it as a ‘singer, performer, or music man.’

That’s the way I figure it.
Fred Parry                                                      

Photo Credit

Doug’s ‘Flying V’ Guitar – photo by Deborah Alice Zuskan

First published at fredparry.ca

Guest Author Bio
Fred Parry

Fred Parry lives in Southern Ontario. He is a lover of people and a collector of stories, music, wisdom, and grandchildren. His raison d’etre? “I’m one of those people who believe that if my work serves the common good, it will last; if not, it will die with me. I still believe that’s true.” Fred spent ten years as a columnist for Metroland Media Group – a division of the publishing conglomerate Torstar Corporation.

His book, ‘The Music In Me’ (2013) Friesen Press is also available via Indigo / Chapters.

Blog / Website: www.fredparry.ca

My mother was a music aficionado.

She was a woman of many talents.

She was a woman who lived through many horrors during her lifetime.

Prelude

When my mother was a very young girl, her appendix ruptured. It was a life and death situation. Back then, there was no such thing as antibiotics. And so, when peritonitis set in, her family prepared for the worst. But she survived, though the next three years would prove extremely challenging. She was sick and confined to her bed, unable to do any of the things her friends were doing.

When she finally became well, her mother was diagnosed with cancer. My mother looked after her through her illness until she died. My mother was just sixteen. She never complained, just did what needed to be done, which now was to look after her father and siblings. Her father then took to the bottle, so my mother was again left to manage things at home. This was during the depression. He had his own business but it quickly dissolved due to the drinking and gambling that he and his brothers were involved in. In time, the family was evicted from their home in Toronto, left out on the street with only what they could carry. As fate would have it, my mother’s aunts, who were all spinsters and lived together, took the family in. And so, they were saved yet again from another disaster. At least they wouldn’t starve. (The aunts were always a part of my mother’s life – several years later, one of them would move in with my mother and father in Montreal.)

Largo

So this woman, my mother, eventually married my father Arthur and they had six children. Two of them died – one of spina bifida, the other was a stillbirth. Another child, my older brother Paul, was intellectually handicapped.

My mom had many hobbies and talents. Apart from being a wonderful cook, she was a fabulous entertainer and would throw the best parties in town. She could sew and knit, and could grow anything, anywhere. She could also run a business. She was what many would call a woman of courage and determination and was, in so many ways, ahead of her time. She was a woman whose strength helped build many essential services in the West Island community of Montreal. She was given several awards over the duration of her lengthy career, including the distinguished Order of Canada.

She could also be stubborn and opinionated.

Adagio

At 85 my mother fell into the dreadful hands of a very subtle enemy. That enemy was dementia. Or was it Alzheimer’s? It doesn’t matter what you call it, it has the same impact. She was no longer the woman she used to be. And it all seemed to happen so fast, almost like it happened overnight. It didn’t though, it was a slow process over several years. We, the family, (my mother included) just didn’t want to see it.

Because she was afflicted with dementia, my mother could no longer speak to me the way she used to. I cried more often than not when I left their apartment. My father looked sad and lonely though he never left my mother’s side. She was in a world all her own. She believed there were several apartment buildings that she lived in. They all had the same furniture, but for the life of her she couldn’t figure out how they got the furniture from one apartment to the other. This was her mind playing tricks on her.
She had supper with her dead father as well, who she feared, though he’d been dead for fifty years or more. She was often visited by those that were long dead. She carried on, telling amazing stories about their demise, stories of suicide and train wrecks. Sometimes she spent her days just thinking, wondering about things like butter tarts and how to make them. She hadn’t cooked a meal in a long time and at this point, wouldn’t know where to find the stove or how to turn it on.

My mother was always running away a lot. She would leave the apartment when my father was resting, and would be brought back home in the dead of night. My father took to putting furniture in front of the door so she couldn’t escape. She would leave the building and go looking for people and things and places that no longer existed. She wandered in the night looking for something, agitated and suffering, her mind playing tricks on her as she walked like a zombie in the night, shuffling along, looking for peace. My father didn’t want to place her in a home, he wanted to look after her. I called, though, and talked to the social worker about getting things in motion, against my father’s wishes. I was depressed, anxious and worried about them both, about what they were going to do. How could they find some peace? This was not how you should live out the end your life. This was not the way it should go.

My father, at 88, continued to take care of my mother, as she was unable to do the things she should’ve been able to do on a daily basis. Without him, my mom would be lost. She would forget to eat or shower or take her pills. She would be lonely without him around, a ship lost at sea. My father would be lost without her too, as she was his life. He knew that he had to get up every day and start all over again because he knew if he didn’t my mother would not be able to handle the day-to-day tasks. My father lived with a woman who repeated things over and over. She confused him and often thought he was someone else. She ran away from him thinking he was a stranger. Yet he comforted her even in her confusion.

We had to bring my mom to the hospital one night because she was up wandering around again. My dad followed her until six in the morning. He couldn’t do it anymore, so he called me. My husband and I went over and took my mom to the hospital but there was nothing wrong with her, just that she was no longer my mother. She was another woman who I didn’t really know very well. She was repetitive, and spoke in low tones about odd things. My mother was gone somewhere. I got glimpses of her; snippets of her personality.

Where would it end? Well, for my parents it ended on July 31st, 2006 when, after a very long and difficult day with my mom, my father had a shower at midnight and fell asleep on his bed. Exhaustion had overtaken him and he crashed, literally, that night onto the floor. It all happened in seconds, and as he lay on the floor in pain he asked my mother to call the ambulance. When he told her to dial 911 she went to phone but then forgot the number. Finally she managed to get help.

Within days their lives changed drastically. My father had broken his hip and underwent surgery. He then had to go to rehab. My mother spiralled further down the rabbit hole as the stress of the situation took its toll on her mental health. We waited for social services to find a bed for her in a nursing home. Sometime later a place became available and my sister and I took her. It was a difficult and emotional ride to that nursing home, one I won’t soon forget. My mom had no idea where she was going, and probably didn’t really know where she was. It was hard to figure out what she understood or knew.

My father did well in rehabilitation and was released six weeks later, back to the apartment he used to shared with his wife. He tried to come to terms with her illness. He felt guilty for falling and for putting the whole placement process in motion. My father was a man who never forgave himself for anything, even though it would no doubt have come to placement eventually. He wouldn’t have been able to look after her for much longer. The stress alone would have done him in.

So they were separated now, emotionally and physically. He visited my mother as often as he could, but it wasn’t the same. It’s not like having your loved one with you ’til death do you part. He missed her. He worried about her. How my mother felt, who could tell. She talked less, and when she did, she asked questions like “how did you cross the ocean? “ She couldn’t put sentences together.

Grave

My mom’s life changed dramatically that night on July 31, 2006. Since that time, my father was diagnosed with lung cancer and passed away a year later on April 27, 2007, after a valiant fight on his part. I was told by the nurses that my mother wept that afternoon at 3:15pm, as though she knew on some level that he was gone. But she never asked about my father. She fell deeper into her own world and spent all her time in a wheelchair.

Where did my mother go? I knew she was there, some part of her, frustrated that she couldn’t get the words right. She would look at me with those beautiful blue eyes of hers, searching my face for some sort of recognition as I searched hers, hoping for her to give me one last piece of advice, one last gem of wisdom, one last gift of  “I love you”.

Many are struck with this disease, one that takes your loved one away from you and leaves you with the shell. How do you deal with that? It’s a disease that affects the family and has such an emotional impact. How does the person feel who has the disease I wonder? I guess we’ll never know. But I wish I knew where my mom went. It would be nice to call her and ask her if I can freeze lemon tarts, or is it alright to use a bundt pan instead of a cake pan to make a raisin cake.

My mother lived until July 2011. She was 90-years-old. The last years of her life were not what you would call quality, but she had a good life.

My mother was not one to give up easily!

Photo Credit
Photos courtesy of Martha Farley – all rights reserved

“Martha, are you going to the party or not?” My mom asks me from the chair in the living room.

“I don’t know mom.” I tell her.

I go outside to the patio and stretch out on the chaise lounge trying to tan my ugly white legs.

“Ok God” I say, “need your help here. I don’t know what to do? Should I go to the party or stay home? My mom is upset, her aunt is dying. What should I do?”

I listen intensely for an answer but none comes. Go figure. I go back inside. Dinner is ready, hot dogs and fries. My parents are very preoccupied with my aunt. So I go downstairs to watch TV and eat my dinner.

“Martha” my mom yells from the top of the stairs.

“Yes” I respond.

“ Aunt Gert just died Martha.”

“ Oh mom I’m sorry, oh no.” What else does one say at the time? I stayed in the basement and listened to music while I heard hustle and bustle upstairs. I think about my prayer to God asking him what to do? I think that perhaps there is a God after all. Then there were the phone calls and the doorbell ringing. The priest arrives. My aunt and uncle from in town come over too.

“Martha I would like you to come upstairs now, Uncle Bill and Aunt Rae are here and we are going to give Gert the last rite. Fr. Lynng is here too to perform the service.”

“Ok mom” wiping the tears from my eyes. Aunt Gert and I had what you would call a kind of turbulent relationship. The first recollection of Gert for me is when I stuck my tongue out at her when I was about six. It must have been the year she moved in with us that I did that. I resented the fact that there was another person in the house taking away my moms precious time.

We stood around my Aunt’s bed while the priest performed the last rite. Family members kneeling on the floor praying, it was a very solemn ceremony. I had never seen a dead body before, it kind of left me awestruck. I didn’t get too close though. I was afraid Gert would sit up and start laughing at us all or something.

The ambulance arrived and my aunt was taken to the morgue.

I didn’t go to my party or the prom the year I graduated from high school. Yet that summer was the summer I remember things changed for all of us. With my aunt Gert passed on, my mother had more time to do what she wanted to do.

Now forty years later I look at her lying in the hospital bed. The wrinkles and lines on her face tell a thousand different stories. She is my mom; she is old now the cigarette long gone from between her two fingers, her lungs no longer sucking in smoke but so desperate now to suck in oxygen.

“Hello,” I say to my mother. Another crisis, pneumonia again.

“Hi “she says.

“Do you know who I am mom?”

“No “

“I’m your daughter. “ I have with me on this visit my daughter who is also about to graduate from high school. I think back to that May many, many years ago. My mom so young with her smokes and her Capri’s and feel a sense of loss and sadness.

“Mom, what are you doing here in the hospital? I ask her.

“I don’t know.” She replies

“Where are my mother and father?” She asks me.

“I don’t know mom, but I am sure they will be here soon.”

“Ok, good. Oh my neck hurts, oh my stomach hurts.” My mother complains, she is not weeping yet there is pain in her voice, in her cry for help. With each cry I try to offer some words that will comfort her. That it seems is all I can do for her.

“Where does it hurt mom? Do you need anything? Can I get you anything?”

“No.” she replies.

“You are a conundrum.” I tell my mother.

“I know, I sure am.” She replies.

“Remember when you used to tell me I was a conundrum, mom?”

“Yes, yes I do.”

“And now the tables are turned “I said and laughed but my mom just looked at me blankly.

Her body is twisted from sitting day after day year after year in a wheelchair. She hasn’t been upright in years. She can’t turn her head or straighten her legs. Yet her hands are still soft to the touch and so my daughter grabs one hand and I the other.

She is tied to the bed they have her in restraints. My daughter and I untie her so her hands are free. Immediately she tries to pull out her oxygen tube.

“Mom, you can’t take that out or I am going to have to tie your hands again. You need that so you can breathe.”

“Oh “says mom and then starts to go again for the tube.

“Mom, no you can’t do that.” My daughter and I grab her hands again and hold on tight. My mom then tries to rest but she is agitated, no wonder I think to myself I would be agitated too.

“Where’s my horse? My mom asks me. My daughter and I laugh.

“Out in the barn.” I tell her.

“Oh “my mother replies. Our conversations are not what they used to be. My mother and I spent many days discussing many things before she got sick.

“Did you get the cheese? She asked me. “That is for that guy named Mr. Broth”

“Ok” I tell her wondering what is going on in her brain. Wondering what and how these words have no meaning to me, but surely have huge meaning to my mother.

My daughter and I spend several hours with my mother. The hospital is a horrible place for anyone but it seems for the elderly it is even more horrific.

In my mind’s eye I see my mom again sitting in her favorite chair. Looking out the window, waiting as my aunt lay dying upstairs in her room.

Full circle, we are here again, I suppose we are all waiting to die. Some of us hopefully will be around a lot longer than others. My daughter is seventeen and her life is just beginning. I am now the one sitting in the chair, looking out the window.

It’s my daughter’s party, her prom. I hear the anxiety in her voice. “Is Grandma going to be alright mom? Are you alright mom? I tell her not to worry; that I am alright, that this is life.

“Mom, we are going to go now ok”. I say to her.

“Alright, tell my mother and father to come and get me.” She answers.

“I will mom, I love you” I tell her and so does my daughter.

“I love you too.” My mom replies. And we leave the room.

My Mom and Daughter and I

I think to myself that life is a riddle, a puzzle of sorts; a conundrum. Once long ago I was a riddle to my mother, now she has become a puzzle to me. Does my daughter worry that I too will become afflicted with Alzheimer’s? She tells me she will look after me even if I become a difficult puzzle to solve. I am grateful for that, as my mother I am sure is grateful that she has a family to look after her. I take my daughters hand as we walk back to the car both of us lost in thought.

Photo Credits

Photos by Martha Farley – All Rights Reserved

The month of July was also when we had our first guest. My son’s son arrived from Gaspe to spend the month with us. It worked out so well. He is ten and so we would go to the public pool when we had that crazy heat wave. We’d walk around town or we’d go discover new things. It was great that we could accommodate him for the month and we had a lot of fun!

As I am writing this now it is Thanksgiving weekend. Mid October and the leaves are changing. Those vibrant and beautiful reds and yellows and burnt oranges. The days are cool and the nights are cold. I love this time of year. Mother nature is letting us know that changes are good. That even when it gets cold we can find warmth indoors.

These past few months I have been living in a little town called St. Anne De Bellevue, it is I am sure in its hay day a quaint cottage village. It is also home to a CEGEP John Abbott and University of McGill. It is so quaint that at noon and six at night the church bells ring out. I love that, the bells remind me of an era when things were simple.

Myself and my two adult children share a house. The arrangement has worked out really well. The cost of living has gone up so much that having being able to share rent is a God send. After my husband died it felt good to be in the place where we had lived. It felt like he and I had made an imprint there but as time went on I got very lonely and so with much discussion my children and I decided to try sharing a house. It is an old house with beautiful inlaid floors and woodwork everywhere. There is plenty of room for us to be alone when we need to or to hang out together.

I felt then that the loneliness of losing my life partner was dissipating somewhat. That weight , the loss was becoming much easier to bear. Having dinner with my children again is wonderful. We all chip in when need be.

Another change for me is that I have retired and so my days are spent in this beautiful house now doing whatever I feel like doing on any particular day. It’s wonderful. The stress of work and all its worries is gone and once again I feel a weight has been removed. At this time I am happy to be reading, and walking and enjoying the beautiful area that I live in. I may get bored with it, who knows. One day at a time is my motto.

It’s Thanksgiving this weekend and we will have our turkey and fixings. But for me it will be a time to really look at my life and be thankful for where it has taken me. A friend of mine tells me often “ God will provide Martha “. I believe that is true. There have been so many things in my life that happen and I never understand why until I am shown why after the fact. Synchronicity, it’s a real thing.

Holidays are so very difficult for those of us who have a loved one who has died. Weather it is a spouse or parent or child, not having those people with us to celebrate all the good things life has to offer is very sad, however knowing that those left behind share in your grief and in the happiness that they knew that person and can share with you those memories that never fade but live on in our hearts and minds.

This I am thankful for, my children and my family and friends who have always been guiding lights in the darkness that can sometimes consume me. I am so very thankful for their love and for their laughter and joy in knowing me and in knowing those that I love.

Photo Credits

Photos by Martha Farley – All Rights Reserved

What I am referring to of course is the late night call from the teen that lives in your house. He or she is that ghostly figure that you see once in a blue moon roaming around; you catch a glimpse of them mostly at meal times. We happen to have a son, who is seventeen at the time I am writing this piece. This is sort of a testament to his adolescence not yet an adult but not a child. Physically he resembles the quarterback from the Oakland Raiders. So the event that I am speaking of is the late night call. Last night as my husband and I sawed logs as they say, beat from another day on the treadmill of life. The phone rings at 1:15 am. Oh no, I think to myself, is it my mom? Or is it my Dad? Being in that sandwich generation you never know which topping is going to spill out of said sandwich. This time it is the younger of the toppings, the son! He is calling to ask if he can stay at his friend’s house for the night. No problem I answer him, I know the friend and I also know he is not far from us if there is a problem. I am half a sleep and hear him say “thanks mom”and click he is gone.

Back to sleep I go, like a baby. An hour or so later I think it was 3:08 to be exact we get yet another call. This time my husband answers. Again I go through the list of who it could be. I then hear my significant other say, “Are you all right?” “What happened?” “You did what?” It was beginning to sound like the inquisition. Then I hear “Well, call us back and let us know what is going on but I think you should come home. ” Then I realize it’s not my parents but my seventeen your old son.

That was our son my husband whispers in my ear. Bringing back memories of days long gone when whispering in my ear was romantic, unlike at this moment it is being done in order for me not to panic as mothers so often do. My husband tells me that our son is at the hospital. Here comes the panic “what?” I say not in a whisper either. “He’s at the hospital, he fell down some stairs and is getting stitches in his head” “Stitches in his head?” I said. “Yes, he wasn’t sure if he was going to go back to his friends or come home. I told him to come home. ” My husband informs me. We then try to fall back asleep, wondering if our son was going to survive out there in the scary world with stitches in his head. How would he do it without us?

Then about an hour later we receive yet another call. I must say thank God for cell phones. My husband answers again. “Yes, he’s leaving? Are you ok? Are you going to be sick? Yes I’m coming right now.” At this point we are both pretty much wide awake. My husband gets dressed and tells me he is going to pick up our son at the hospital. Our son’s friend had to leave to go to work. It was 4:18 am at this time. And how silly of us to think our parenting days were over?

By 5:00am both my son and husband are safe and sound at home. My son was fine except for a huge gash in the front of his head. He had six stitches and was given a pain killer. “How are you?” I ask him. “I’m ok now, but you should have seen the blood mom. I went outside it was bleeding so much. I didn’t want to get blood all over my friend’s house.” Well, no God forbid I thought to myself. “Yea so what my friends did mom was to get some flour and put it on the cut to stop the bleeding.” My son tells me this in all seriousness. This is why parents need to talk to their children because who knows where they get their information. “Flour is for making cakes I tell him, not for stopping gushing blood from your head! Were you drinking?” I ask this knowing full well that he had been drinking. “Yes, he tells me, I slipped on the stairs going down to the basement.”

“You were lucky that it wasn’t more serious.” The heart to heart would have to wait till we all had some sleep.

We then tried to find something to put on his head so the bandage would not fall off. All sorts of things were tired until we came up with fitting a toque on his head. All part of growing up I suppose, and it was bound to happen sooner or later. The late night phone call, the one that sends your stomach for a ride. With elderly parents and teenagers on the run one never knows what kind of call you are going to get in the night and from whom.

Ryan and his Dad

So for those of you, who are just beginning the ride, fasten your seat belts. The road of life is long and sometimes can be treacherous. Make sure you’re packing a good sense of humor and a husband who is willing to run to the hospital in the middle of the night to retrieve boys that go bump in the night.

Photo Credits

Photos by Martha Farley – All Rights Reserved

Had that happened today, I’m sure I would’ve been told exactly what was wrong with my brother and perhaps even given some tips from some expert as to how to respond in a situation like that. And I most likely would’ve had some decompression time with either my mom or my dad. But back in the days of ignorance, illnesses like Paul’s were never spoken about. They were a taboo subject. My parents probably presumed it wasn’t my problem and did their best to handle a very difficult and mentally challenged son, all the while trying to keep some normalcy in the household. That, as it turned out, was easier said than done.

As I recall, I didn’t really get what was going on with Paul. It never dawned on me that there was anything really wrong with him, he was just my older brother. I never really thought about how the world saw him. As a teenager, it was difficult to live with Paul. There was always a trauma, it seemed, when it came to him. And he would often say embarrassing things like “Hey Mom, Martha’s growing boobs.” It made me very uncomfortable. I used to wonder what it would be like to have a normal older brother, not one who blurted out stupid things in front of everyone. ‘Retarded’ was a word I became all too familiar with growing up. The neighborhood kids made fun of my brother with comments like “Hey, where’s the retard” and to me they’d say “Yeah, you’re a retard just like your brother.” Kids are cruel, no question about that. Paul suffered years of ridicule from so many people. We all tried so hard to protect him. But I often wondered why, why did my brother have to be ‘retarded’?  Why couldn’t he be normal like everyone else’s brother?

Eventually, as I grew up, I became more aware that Paul was different. Living with an obsessive-compulsive person who was intellectually handicapped was not an easy thing, like the times I’d have friends over. It was embarrassing. But once my friends got used to Paul it became easier for them to visit. I can imagine it must have been a bit scary for them, he could be downright nasty if he wanted to be.

My mother was very involved in several projects in our community in order to help Paul and others like him. Both my parents worked diligently to attain services for their son. My mother was instrumental in organizing the first special education class in a nearby school. I vividly remember going with her and Paul in our little Volkswagen to pick up Paul’s classmates and deliver them to the school, as the school board was not offering a bus service. My mom and I did that for an entire year. I used to ride on the hand brake, as there were at least four other kids, aside from my brother, in the back and front seat. So my brother has enjoyed many privileges and has had a lot of opportunity that other children born like him back in the day may not have had.

I don’t know why Paul is who he is. I’m somewhat positive some of his traits were inherited and others certainly are due to his handicap. He pursued his hobbies, his airplane models, his art work. He enjoyed music and loved to dance. He made friends and walked everywhere and he knew just about everyone in our community. What he lacked in several areas intellectually and socially he sure made up for in spunk. 

Paul was never really diagnosed with any syndrome in particular over the years. Now, it’s presumed he’s autistic, as he has several traits of an autistic person. He loves organization; things have to be in just the right spot. He washes everything twice. He has certain clothes he wears for certain events. He repeats everything, and would say things like, “Life is like hell on earth, eh Marth? Like hell on earth.” And then he’d laugh. I’m not sure what he’d be laughing at but I guess he thought hell was funny. He’s an absolutely wonderful artist. As a young man he used to draw money. I’m not lying, you couldn’t tell the difference if you looked quickly at his drawing of a twenty dollar bill and a real bill, he was that good, that detailed in his work. He doesn’t bother anyone, he just enjoys the simple things in life and manages to do what he likes to do without a problem. 

Paul is older now. He’s sixty years old and lives on his own. He’s mentally challenged, or intellectually handicapped, and he’s a real character. A straight shooter is what you’d probably call him if he were ‘normal’. But I don’t make that distinction anymore. He is who he is and you gotta love him for being that – for just being Paul.

Photo Credits
Photos by Martha Farley – all rights reserved

Additionally, thank you cards are also a great way to foster connection. They are so much more than just a simple “thanks.” You can use them as a way to reconnect with someone, start a conversation, or truly let that person know what they mean to you.

Of course, that means you should show a bit of vulnerability as you create your thank you cards. By including heartfelt messages in various situations, you can feel good about your attitude of gratitude, and you can strengthen your relationship with the people you’re writing to.

Bridging the Gap

There’s no question that we’re living in a tech-forward world. Technology continues to advance and make everyday tasks more convenient. It can also help significantly with staying connected to people you care about. At the same time, however, technology can only go so far (no pun intended). Things like phone calls, texting, and even video chats are great. But, there can be something impersonal about them, especially when you’re talking to someone on the go or fitting them into small increments of your life.

Make no mistake, that kind of connection is important and technology is wonderful for making it happen. But, things like thank you cards can help to bridge the gap that technology sometimes struggles with. A handwritten thank you note is incredibly personal. When you take the time to find a card, write a heartfelt note, and send it out in the mail, the recipient is more likely to pay attention to what it has to say and feel good about the time you took to send it.

They can also help people feel seen during major life moments that might be masked by tech. For example, live-streamed weddings have become more popular since the COVID-19 pandemic. It’s a great way to get everyone involved in the big day and allow more people to attend, even if it’s virtually. But, sending all of your virtual guests hand-written thank you notes will really show your gratitude and help them know their attendance – even online – was important to you.

Why Do Thank You Notes Really Matter?

Still not quite convinced that a heartfelt thank you card can boost connection and show your gratitude? Thank you notes are more than a formality after someone gives you a gift or does something for you. They can actually open the door to future communication and they can let someone know how you really feel.

That’s great for family members and friends you want to stay close with. But, thank you notes can also be used in career settings to help strike a positive first impression. If you’re going to send a heartfelt thank you note to someone you’ve been networking with, keep these tips in mind to make the most of it:

• Send it within 48 hours
• Keep it short and sweet
• Take the time to write it by hand
• Address your recipient the right way
• Be respectful, courteous, and thankful

Thank you notes can help you stand out from others because they’re not as common as they used to be. They also demonstrate your communication skills and show the recipient that you don’t take things for granted.

How to Create a Thank You Card

One of the easiest ways to put together a thank you card is to purchase a pack to keep at home. You never know when you might need one, and even if they’re all the same, your handwritten message can be personal and different for every situation. The card design itself doesn’t really matter — what you say inside is what counts.

There are no hard and fast rules when it comes to what you should share in a thank you card, as long as you adequately show your gratitude. But, if you’re unsure where to start, keep these tips in mind:

• Start with a positive greeting
• Express specific gratitude
• Explain how the recipient’s kindness has impacted you
• Tell them you’re looking forward to seeing them or connecting soon

Go beyond simply saying “thank you.” Let the recipient know why their gesture meant so much, and why it was so important for you to reach out to them with gratitude. Your words could make that person’s day and foster a relationship that might not otherwise grow.

Being consciously grateful can also benefit you. An attitude of gratitude can boost your mental health, reduce depression and anxiety, and change your perspective on things. So, whether it’s a holiday, birthday, wedding, or just because someone showed you an act of kindness, consider bringing this lost art back into practice. You might be surprised by the relationships it develops and the way it makes you feel.

Photo Credit

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

Guest Author Bio
Luke Smith

Luke Smith is a writer and researcher turned blogger. He enjoys writing on a variety of topics but business, technology, and digital marketing topics are his favorite. When he isn’t writing you can find him traveling, hiking, or getting into the latest tech.

On this particular day, Mom needed a ride to the bank. She loved going to the bank. Everyone there knew Joan Farley. They knew her because she had run a business for many years and had spent a lot of time there. She prided herself on being a customer for over fifty years.

That day, the bank was having a bake sale as a fundraiser for a local charity. Mom, of course, wanted to look at the baking after she finished her banking. So when she finished up with the teller, we wandered over to the baking table where we ran into Mary, one of Mom’s past employees. There we were, minding our own business, talking shop as they say, when Mary gave me a look. I tried to read her lips but to no avail. I got closer and she whispered, “The bank is being robbed!”

My heart skipped a beat or two. Surely, Mary, you’re wrong about this! I thought to myself.

I then said to her, “Well, nice to see you Mary. Come on Mom, we’d better get going!”

I turned my mom toward the door. She grabbed my arm and we walked toward the exit, but there was someone standing there and he wasn’t a security guard. I looked at him and he shook his head ‘no’, then opened his coat to reveal a shotgun. Okayyy then!

I turned Mom around and said, “Well, maybe I’ll go back and look at the goodies again, Mom.”

“All right, dear,” she replied.

The last time I’d been in a robbery with my mother was when we went to Frontier Town when we were kids. We were on a train and the cowboys got on and asked for our money. I think my mom hit one of them with her purse on that particular day. She was a lot younger then.

On this day, everything happened so fast. There was a flash of someone running through the bank, jumping up over the counter and asking the tellers to empty their cash. At this point I had my mom sitting in a chair next to a wall. She, at the time, was showing signs of Alzheimer’s and I was terrified she would say something to these two guys. Stuff only my mother would say to strangers robbing a bank. Things like, “Now you two boys, what are you doing this for?” Or, “ You know it’s a sin to steal.” Or, “If your mother knew what you were doing today!” Mom was not shy about speaking her mind, that we all knew, and Mary kept looking over at me, probably thinking the same thing: I hope your mother doesn’t say anything! Mom was in the helping business, so I was sure she was going to suggest something for them to do other than rob banks.

The inside of the bank was so quiet. All you could hear was the money going into the guy’s bag. Thankfully they didn’t ask us to lie on the floor and they didn’t take any of our personal belongings or money. Knowing my mom, she probably withdrew at least a couple of hundred dollars. I was quietly holding my breath, hoping we’d get out of the whole thing alive. We had no idea what these two guys were capable of.

As quickly as they came in, they were gone. We were all very quiet when they first left. I guess everyone was in shock. Eventually there was a collective sigh of relief, and then the police showed up. I was a complete wreck, crying and shaking. I was so worried about my mom, and worried she would do something due to her Alzheimer’s. When it was over I was just so relieved, like a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders.

At one point, one of the police officers came over to my mom and me and asked how we were. My mom, in her usual fashion, looked at the officer and said, “Well I’m fine, but my daughter here is a mess!”

Thanks Mom!

Photo Credit

Photo by Martha Farley – all rights reserved

The kitchen was small and yet Mom had the magic touch in that tiny space. She could produce the most amazing things with flour, butter and sugar. And there were always pans of her nuts and bolts and cheese straws. All sorts of her fruit pies – apple, strawberry and blueberry – were frozen in her giant freezer in the garage. 

Mom and Dad were masters at being hosts. At parties, and in particular le Réveillon on Christmas Eve, Mom would cook up a ham and roast beef or a turkey with all the trimmings. Dad looked after the bar – rye, rum, whiskey, vodka, gin, beer and wine for dinner. And of course his favorite apéritif. He loved those tiny glasses and the rich taste of Irish cream. And the parties were always alive with music! My parents’ friends were all so talented and could play the piano or guitar or both. And the singing and dancing! I would sit on the stairs when I was very young until I was old enough to join in the festivities that lasted into the wee hours. It was always a treat to listen to the merriment! At midnight Mom would start bringing out trays and platters of food, and would lay down a feast amongst the candles and linens and branches of sweet-smelling pine. No expense was spared when it came to le Réveillon. There were beans with almonds and mushroom sauce, turnips and yams and mashed potatoes so creamy they would melt in your mouth, and broccoli au gratin made with old cheddar cheese. Mom never scrimped on butter or cheese. Her famous CCC (Chocolate Chip Cookies), oatmeal cookies, peanut butter cookies, chocolate candy and roasted almonds were always plentiful. She would let me taste a cookie in the dining room with her; we would chat while I ate my cookie and she had a smoke break. Her tomato aspic was something I always remember but could never quite understand why someone would eat it. Every dish was prepared with love and a thankfulness for all the people who sat around that table.

Those were the days of Christmas filled with such sweet and wonderful smells coming from the kitchen. Those are the moments in time that are kept close in my heart. Memories of my mom, who could cook up a storm, rest in my heart and give me a good feeling. It’s the feeling of what Christmas means to me: good food, family and friends sharing in those special moments. I hope I’ve been a part of my children’s Christmas landscape just like my parents were a part of mine; traditions passed down to keep those special moments alive for generations to come.

Photo Credits

Photos courtesy of Martha Farley – all rights reserved

Apart from horror scenes from a movie, my other reason for ‘dentist anxiety’ is, as a kid I had a dentist who I swear would smoke in the room while he was checking your teeth out. His hands smelled like cigarettes. No such thing as hygiene in those days. He didn’t wear gloves either! It was just the worst place on earth. Maybe he was the dentist from Marathon Man? If I hadn’t known better I might have thought his so-called office was a hidden torture chamber set up by spies. I mean, he was that creepy! So a creepy, smelly dentist from my childhood and a horrific scene from a movie really put a bad taste in my mouth for dentists (excuse the pun.)

Afraid is not the word. A panic attack in full swing, shaking, nervous, bordering on passing out is how I get in the dentist chair. As I said though, all the staff at our dentist office know me pretty well now and try to make the experience as pleasant as possible. If it can, indeed, be pleasant. Just the sound of the drill makes my heart skip a beat, and not in a lovey-dovey kind of way. I swear I’ve seen the face of God looking down on me in that chair, with my mouth wide open, drooling saliva all over the place. What does God think of me sitting there, holding onto my shorts like it’s the end of the world? But it isn’t, it’s just that your mind kind of gets lost in the scraping and pulling and pushing and spraying. My eyes are always closed because I don’t want to see what’s happening. Lord no, that would make it worse. Bright lights and sterile pointy things that could slice your throat? No, it’s best not to know what’s coming! So I try to think of other things while in the chair, to visualize a peaceful scene, like me on a beach walking hand in hand with my husband. You know, stuff like that. But it doesn’t always work. Sometimes the face of God appears out of nowhere, like an omen, and then I feel it: the pinch of a nerve at the root of the tooth the dentist is working on. My hands grip the arms of the chair and I white-knuckle it until that pain goes away. I can almost see God laughing at my dramatic response, no doubt telling all the angels what a wussy I am, and don’t I see what’s going on the world? Third world problems, He thinks to himself.

I’m getting a crown right now, and no, not the royal kind, the expensive kind. And while my dentist was drilling my fake tooth, standing beside me with drill and tooth in hand, I asked him quite sincerely, “Is there any way I could just take all my teeth out so you could work on them like that?” “Ohhh,” he laughed, “in a perfect world Martha!” Damn, I said to myself. So I’ll be selling my firstborn in order to pay for my crown, and I don’t even get to show it off unless I walk around pointing it out to everyone. I don’t think, in general, people would go for that. Mouths are meant to be kept closed, or at least partially closed, at all times. I guess my new crown will not be something I can flaunt.

I always thought I had a good set of teeth. I mean, they’re pretty straight. But lately I’ve found I have teeth like my mom, in that some of them kind of overlap others. It must be a genetic thing. I, too, am like my mother in the sense that she never went to the dentist unless it was an emergency. My father would go often. He was either brave or crazy, not sure which, but he would never get his mouth frozen. He would have work done without anesthetic! My father and I differ drastically on this point, even though those needles make my heart pound! I wonder if he enjoyed Marathon Man? He may have. So I suppose I’ve inherited my lack of desire to go to the dentist from my Mom. I never saw her go! Even though she made us all go to ‘cigarette dentist’. I guess it was like the threat of torture to us kids – you better behave or I’ll send you to the dentist! Sounds funny now when I think of it, but maybe there’s just a little bit of truth to that?

Anyway, I can’t complain too much, I’ve been going to the same dental clinic for many years. They know me, my husband and our children. They’re like family to us, and even though Dr. Faguy retired a few years ago, his replacement, Dr. Taouk, is just as wonderful. Both men make you feel as comfortable as possible while in their chair. And the staff who work there, Madeleine, Sue, Angie, Johanne and Shani, are all so good to us. If only we could just take our teeth out and leave them with the receptionist and go back a couple hours later and pick them up. Wow, that would be awesome. Unfortunately that won’t be happening anytime soon!

So I’m just grateful things have gotten better for us as far as dentists go. If I’m going to have massive panic attacks, I’m glad it’ll be with these people and not Dr. Cigarette! Or that dentist from Marathon Man. Phew!

Photo Credit

Photo from Pexels – free for commercial use