Posted on April 17, 2018 under Storytelling with 6 comments

 

I was born into a large Catholic family in rural Nova Scotia. It seems that just about every family was big and most in our community wore the Catholic label. In fact, such was the preponderance of Catholics in our community that we became affectionately known as “The Little Vatican”. This sobriquet remains to this day despite the fact that Antigonish has changed vastly over the years. Many faith communities exist and families are much smaller.

All Catholics have a start and finish line. We are born to die. This is not the most appetizing thing on the Catholic menu. But there are promises of greater things when our mortal remains are cast into the wind or set adrift on the ocean at Mahoney’s Beach.

I wake up from a long nap. I squint as the morning light streams through my bedroom window. I attempt to rub away sleep from my eyes. I catch something out of the corner of my eye. My eyesight is not as good as it will be. I see something above me going around in circles. I haven’t quite figured this out. I later learn that this is a mobile. Truthfully, everything is a giant mystery at this point in my life.

I recognize my mother as she gently lifts me out of my crib. She bathes me in warm water and scrubs me to within an inch of my life with bar of Sunlight soap. I sparkle like the sun. She finishes things off with a slathering of Johnson’s baby oil.

She takes me over to a change table. “Hey. What’s with the white dress?” I’m thinking as she places a well-traveled gown over my tiny frame. I distinctly remember dad doing cartwheels outside the delivery room when he heard that he had another son. So, if I am truly a future standard bearer for the MacDonald clan, then why the dress?

My mother cradles me in her arms as we get into dad’s car. It might have been a Studebaker. We drive a short distance to a large stone building with a cross on top. It is my first trip to St.Ninian’s Cathedral but it wouldn’t be my last. This cavernous building is quite scary to one so small. I remain placid amid the wails from several of my peers. I can’t quite figure out what is going on.

I soon discover the reason for the trauma as I am about to be subjected to similar treatment. Every newborn in the church will become part of an important fraternity on this day.

The priest blesses me with the sign of the cross. There are prayers and more prayers. A large candle is lit and I can smell the residue of the smoke from the extinguished match. I am lifted up and positioned over a large receptacle filled with water.

Drip. Drip. Drip. It starts with a trickle and then becomes a torrent. It sounds like a waterfall. Later in my life I will visit Niagara Falls, causing vivid flashbacks. A large man, wearing strange robes is looming over me speaking in a foreign tongue which I later learned to be Latin. He is pouring water on my head but it runs into my eyes causing extreme agitation. I am tempted to ask for a bathing cap and goggles. The situation worsens as I start to whimper and now the water enters my throat, prompting me to gag. I soon realize that being a Catholic involves pain and suffering and possibly suffocation.

Years later, I will come to understand that the events described in previous paragraphs were my baptism. I was born Roman Catholic and as such am expected to take part in several sacraments.

So, why is baptism the first step on the long journey of a Catholic? Good question and one that still puzzles me from time to time. Baptism is the sacrament that frees us from original sin. This is a bit of a head scratcher. How many times did I commit original sin (or worse) in the womb? And at the tender age of 7 days, one wouldn’t think that a wholesale cleansing would have been necessary.

And so, the first roots of guilt were planted in my subconscious.

I would learn that we are all born sinners and only a thorough dousing in a baptismal font would keep me in God’s good graces. It was explained to me that wearing something white (like a Stanfield T-shirt?) was a symbol of purity. I also discovered that christening dresses are handed down from generation to generation.

There’s a party at our home after the ceremony and I am handed around the room like the Stanley Cup. Everyone, it seems, needs to pinch my cheek which is quite annoying and also coo sweet nothings into my tiny ears. It must be an important occasion as mom is serving lobster sandwiches with the crusts cut off.

I am now a full blown member of the fraternity.

The train of life is leaving the station. Welcome aboard.

Posted on April 16, 2018 under Monday Morning Musings with one comment

Antigonish Affordable Housing Society – first $10,000 recipients

 

The power of 100.

I’ve been involved in fundraising for many years as have many of you. Whether it’s a bake sale, a raffle, an annual campaign or a capital campaign, money raised typically goes to something that benefits the community. It’s one of those things that are a very important economic engine.  Maritimers are well known for their legendary generosity.

It seems that every time you turn around, there’s a campaign of one sort or another going on. In other words, the competition for fund raising dollars can be fierce, especially in larger centers. In many ways, smaller communities do a better job sorting through the fundraising landscape. They know what’s important especially when money raised is spent locally.

We all know the power of one woman. Now, do the multiplier and think of the impact 100 women can make, especially when they have a charitable cause in mind.

Some women in Antigonish have gotten together and created a local chapter of 100 Women Who Care. This organization has been around for many years and has had a major impact on non-profit organizations in places like Pictou County and Truro.

The beauty of the concept is that it’s so simple. Let’s face it; everyone (including retirees!) leads very busy lives. Many people don’t have extra time to volunteer for worthwhile causes but in a lot of cases they have the financial resources to assist charities.

The objective is to find 100 women who can donate $100, four times a year. That comes to a tidy sum of $40,000 annually. Women can also team up in groups of up to four members to share in the cost. Four times a year, the group meets to hand out $10,000. Your donations are tax deductible.

At each of these meetings, three non-profit groups give a five minute presentation on how the $10,000 would benefit their organization and the people it serves. Then the 100 women cast their votes and the winner is announced immediately. This format is great for busy people as the meeting is over in thirty minutes and the non-profit organization chosen by the members goes home with the money that evening.

The initial winner of the first award was the Antigonish Affordable Housing Society.

I mean, it doesn’t get much simpler or more efficient than this.

No here’s the thing. The 100 Women Who Care, Antigonish chapter, needs a few more women to fill out their ranks… 23 to be exact. I showed up in a kilt at a meeting but this clever disguise didn’t fool the sharp eyed executive! If you’re interested, check out their website at www.100wwcantigonish.ca . Go to the “Join Us” tab and become a member.

I’m settling in nicely to life in Phoenix. It has been hot and dry as expected and a bit too early to tell whether the healing power of the sun will do the trick for my arthritis.

Have a great week.

 

Posted on April 12, 2018 under Thursday Tidbits with no comments yet

 

Humboldt.

You have to have lived in Western Canada to understand the culture of hockey. Yes, curling is huge and many of Canada’s greatest curling dynasties were born and bred on the Prairies. But hockey is deeply ingrained in the psyche, especially junior hockey where many a farm boy threw hay bales in the summer as part of their dry land training. Junior hockey in Alberta, Saskatchewan and Manitoba is a religion. The Holy Grail is having a chance to make it big and land a coveted position with an NHL team. Riding buses is a rite of passage and part of paying your hockey dues.

I played a bit of hockey in my time including high school, Junior B and Senior Hockey, the latter in Northern Alberta during my teaching days. And I can attest to the near religious fervor of hockey. Of all the things that helped me be accepted in a small farming community, making the local senior hockey squad made me feel like a local celebrity. If you played for the Fairview Elks, you were somebody. Most of our home games were on Friday nights and one would be hard pressed to find a seat in the Fairview arena.

Our league was spread over vast swaths of the landscape like the juniors but most of our road trips were under four hours and we traveled by car. I know what it is like to drive several hours, play a game, have a beer or two, pack sweaty equipment into the trunk of the car and arrive back home well after midnight. And winter in the North Peace Country was always bitterly cold. Temperatures of -20 to -40 were not uncommon. Frozen hockey gear would stand on end when removed from the trunk of the car to dry out at home.

The recent devastating tragedy in Humboldt is almost impossible to digest such is the magnitude of the loss. Fifteen members of the Bronco’s hockey squad lost their lives in the blink of an eye last week and the dreams of youth were shattered. No amount of thoughts and prayers or messages of condolence can possibly ease the pain and suffering of the families of the deceased or the fractured bodies of those who survived.

One thing I do know is that prairie people are incredibly resilient and determined. They will mourn for a very long time. They will suffer the loss but you can be certain that the community and the country at large will wrap their arms around those who grieve and the sun will rise again over the wheat fields.

Humbled.

I was much honored to attend the recent Volunteer Week Awards ceremony in Halifax. I was chosen by the Town of Antigonish as their volunteer of the year. When I was first informed a few months ago, I was a bit startled. There are so many people in our community who have given an entire life of service that I felt just a bit awkward accepting this honor. When it comes down to it, I expect every other nominee from around the province feels the same way. It is the quiet foot soldiers who toil anonymously who really deserve the credit.

And, of course, for a married couple, these awards are merited equally. It isn’t possible for both parents to be out serving on boards and coaching minor sports at the same time. The gift of time given by one’s spouse to pursue volunteer work should be recognized.

It certainly is by me.

Thanks so much for all the kind words, e-mails and private messages.

Have a great week.