Author Archives: Thelma

Death Cafe

A friend and I went to our first Death Cafe in Summerside yesterday. I was already planning to be in town for an appointment and was able to arrange to stay a bit longer to join her, and I’m so glad I did. She and I are both very open about talking about death, so she was the perfect partner for this experience.

The Death Cafe concept started in the UK just over a decade ago and are now held around the world. They are designed to be casual events where people talk about death: your own, those you love, death in general. It is emphasized that a Death Cafe is not a grief support group, though most everyone yesterday spoke about people they loved who had died.

Hospice PEI were the sponsors and had held a few before the pandemic, but this was the first post-pandemic edition. Their staff arranged all the logistics (including chocolate cupcakes with little RIP signs on them!) and acted as facilitators. I think there were about 15 of us around three tables at Samuel’s Coffee House.

There aren’t firm rules around what is discussed at a Death Cafe, except that we not share the stories or details we heard from others. It was made clear we could speak or just listen, whatever we were comfortable doing.

After introductions, the facilitator at our table of six invited us to share what we hoped to get out of the session or what had made us attend. We all had very different reasons for being there, and the conversation flowed freely. We also used cards from The Death Deck Game, and spent an hour talking and listening. Despite the serious topic, the room was filled with laughter, but there were naturally also a few tears.

My mother is 100. She is remarkably well for her age, but is ready to die, and we talk about it often. She tells others her hope that she won’t wake up one morning, getting the death she prays for, and the reactions are mixed, of course, depending on her audience. When she started speaking so openly about this a couple of years ago, I gently suggested others might not be comfortable with it, but she continued anyway and I accepted it. Death is a very real part of her life, our lives.

My mother is a devout Christian, as was my father, and so I attended church basically from birth. Most Christian churches on PEI have a graveyard attached, and our church’s graveyard is the final resting place of many of my ancestors. I could pick out their tombstones before I could read them, would help my mother as she tended the flowers lovingly placed in front of them each spring, knew how to clean the stones with a stiff bristle brush and soapy water.

My great grandparents were the rough-surfaced white stone onto which moss stubbornly clung. We would scrub their names and dates and the simple phrase God is Love, which is also on the tombstone now in place at my father’s head, where my mother will be, where I will be.

One uncle and aunt had a polished red stone that was easy to clean, with a small tombstone next to it for the tiny baby they had who died right after he was born. That one had a little lamb sitting on top and was my favourite for that reason, but it was so sad, the little baby that never was guarded by the hard, staring lamb.

When you walk by a graveyard on your way in and out of church at least once a week, play tag and run around the tombstones when adults aren’t there to tell you to simmer down, you get a pretty good idea from a young age what life will eventually lead to. Someday it will be you in the box that is carefully carried into the church, the pump organ wheezing Abide With Me. Another little child will awkwardly carry a smelly flower arrangement and have to stand by your grave looking solemn, as you did so many times in the cold or with mosquitos biting your ankles. There will be sandwiches and tea after, and quiet words about you.

My mother taught me an old prayer to say at bedtime that she must have learned from her grandmother, who learned from her mother, and back and back:

Now I lay me down to sleep

I pray the Lord my soul to keep

If I should die before I wake

I pray the Lord my soul to take

I would then say God bless Mommy and Daddy, and recite a long list of aunts, uncles, cousins, friends and pets, including my goldfish, Henry. It was never actually the same list twice as it depended on how tired I was or who was front of mind.

Amen.

And to this day, many decades after I left behind the church and the ideas underlying that fairly creepy verse, the prayer occasionally comes back to me when I can’t sleep. I don’t say the prayer, but list off the loved ones, long-gones and still-heres, all the cats, a few chickens, and drift off.

We had family wakes in our house when I was a small child, the traditional way it had always been done. Only a wall separated two-year-old me in my crib from the dead body of my grandmother and then, a few months later, an 18-year-old cousin. They were asleep while we were asleep, they were asleep when we were awake. We waked, they slept.

Someone even took group photos next to the caskets, capturing those final moments together. That’s something I’ve never heard of anyone else doing, and which I knew from a young age was probably totally bonkers and something best kept to myself, but that’s what happened. People touched the dead hands and faces. I don’t remember any of this happening, except that I’ve seen those photos, rushing quickly past them in the photo albums. The smell of flowers must have been overwhelming in our house, and the scent of too many roses can still make me queasy.

I’m not sure if many people cried at my grandmother’s wake as she was 74 and hadn’t been well, so it would be seen as a blessing. I know many cried at my cousin’s wake because he had been killed in a motorcycle accident and was beloved by everyone. Only last week, my mother told me again that she never really got over his death, and that her life was completely changed by it. She lost her mother when she was 4, her only brother when she was 37, her father the year after I was born, her grandparents who raised her, but her young nephew being killed by a careless driver was the death that cut her life in half, the before and after.

When someone who volunteered at the charity where I worked in Toronto died, many of our staff and volunteers went to the wake and funeral. I was then in my early thirties. A colleague asked me to pick her up to go to the funeral home, and when she got in the car told me she was nervous as she had never been to a wake before and wasn’t sure what she would have to do. I was surprised she had lived into her mid-50s without attending a wake, even a family wake, but kept that to myself and told her to just follow me.

As it turned out, I was unable to model the standard PEI wake behaviour – shake hands, tell the person how sorry you are for their loss, shuffle along to the next person, shake hands, tell the person how sorry you are for their loss, shuffle along to the next person – because this volunteer had no family. None. We found out that night in the most poignant way possible that we were her family. Social services paid for the funeral, and it was pretty grim: a flimsy blue cardboard casket, only the flowers our charity had sent, no receiving line, a minister who had never met her and didn’t seem to want to be there. I, confident waker that I was, had never seen anything like it, so my coworker and I both experienced something new that evening.

That same work colleague died last week. She had been unwell for a while, but it was still a sad message to receive. After hearing the news of her death, I remembered a story she had told me about her own mother’s death.

Her mother was in the hospital and had been unresponsive for a couple of days, her breathing slowing, life draining away. Doctors said it wouldn’t be long, and my friend sat alone by her side, hour by hour, no partner or sibling to relieve her as it was just the two of them living together in Canada. Their relationship had been difficult for many complex reasons, but she was still feeling very sad that this was the end of her mother’s life.

Suddenly, her mother roused, sat up, looked at my friend and said, “You and I have a lot to talk about.” Then her mother laid back down and died.

The end. Amen.

They are planning to hold more Death Cafes on PEI, and they are also held in many places around the world. It was an entirely positive experience, very freeing and uplifting, and I hope to attend another one some time. My friend and I agreed that talking about death made us feel very alive.

Being Told

Yesterday I had the odd experience of someone DMing me on Twitter to tell me that something I had tweeted wasn’t accurate. It had to do with forest fires on PEI, a topic I actually do know a little about.

It wasn’t a nasty or unpleasant message, but rather just something I realise I have experienced all my life as a woman: being told by men that what I know to be true isn’t. In the past it was sometimes done to intimidate me, but often it was just from the bold certainty that they were right.

We had a room added to our house a few years ago. The first step was to remove a deck, which was to be saved as it was still in good shape. I wasn’t watching the crew at first, but heard more power sawing than I had expected and looked out to find they had chopped the deck into small chunks so it could be hauled away.

It was too late to save it, but I wanted to know why they had destroyed a perfectly good deck. The foreman said that it had been in bad shape and we wouldn’t have wanted it, which was clearly nonsense. I asked him to show me, and he picked up a board that had been sitting on the ground and did have a bit of rot, but could have been easily replaced when it became a problem.

He had clearly made a mistake, but instead of apologizing, he expected that I knew nothing about carpentry and would believe his nonsense. He lied, but with the hope and expectation that I would not be able to challenge him. And I didn’t challenge him beyond saying I knew the deck was in good shape because I had kept it in good shape, but he still didn’t budge and continued his work.

Lies and ignorance are two different things, of course, but it’s delivery and the belief that is behind them that can rankle.

I have long been suspicious of certainty in myself and others. As a younger person I would confidently declare that I would never do something, only to find myself later doing it, so I now try to avoid such declarations. Over time I have learned to embrace the questions more than the answers. Someone who tells me they know everything has actually told me they know nothing.

Snowy Egret

I was lucky enough to spot a snowy egret as it walked down our river at 6:30 this morning. I had seen them many times in Florida near where my parents used to spend the winter, but I never remembered seeing one here before.

I grabbed my camera and binoculars and ran out onto the lawn to try to record this unusual bird, looking a bit of an unusual bird myself in my red plaid flannel PJs. Our neighbours are not close enough to see what I’m wearing, so citizen science need not be thwarted by decorum!

The egret waded and fished as it travelled around the little point of land in front of our house, nabbing and swallowing little fish. My photos were not very sharp, but in person I could see this white bird’s dark legs and comically yellow feet.

I uploaded the photos to iNaturalist and was surprised to find only one other snowy egret observation on PEI. I later confirmed with a biologist friend that they are quite rare here and are not known to breed this far north. I was chuffed to bits!

I’ve looked at this river view every day for decades, know the ebb and flow of both the river and the wildlife on it intimately and, I thought, completely, but turns out I still have more to learn. Every day brings new discoveries. What joy.

Snowy Egret

Quackers

Flapping sounds coming from a chimney usually means trouble for both the flapper and the homeowner. I heard a faint rustling noise near our fireplace two days ago, but it seemed to stop. Yesterday I heard it again, and decided to investigate.

A starling once came down the chimney, but then thankfully managed to get out on its own. A pair of them had been scouting out a nearby maple tree as a nesting spot, but I hadn’t seen them in a couple of days, so I guessed that might be our visitor.

First I hung an old bed sheet from the mantel to cover the fireplace opening because our two indoor cats would be of little help if a bird started flying around inside the house. There is a draft stopper in the fireplace to help make it less of an energy suck, so I removed that and then unscrewed the damper. It only opened a small way, and there was more fluttering, but no vocalization. I put a light in the fireplace and walked away for a while.

I returned a few minutes later and looked up inside. I could see a small beak, a rounded beak, unlike pointy song bird beaks. Could it be a small duck? A SMALL DUCK?!

The little duck seemed to be breathing hard, almost sighing, so I didn’t want to crank the damper more to see if I could open it enough to pull the duck out. The damper would have to be removed, though I had no idea if that was possible.

Turns out disassembling a screw-type damper is a pretty simple operation, with the most difficult part getting a large cotter pin unbent and removed. After I got the door free, a lot of dirt and bits of mortar and some fresh moss (for the duck nest, I assume) came raining down on me. My headlamp and gloves were quickly joined by a face mask and goggles as I tried to figure out how to get the door out of the way to grab the duck. I could now see her white stomach and tiny little webbed feet. She was wedged in.

Knowing a duck wouldn’t be able to fly much in the house, I took the sheet down and out of the way. She moved to one side of the chimney and I was able to turn the door enough to bring it down, and the duck dropped out. Before I could grab her, she took off, flying toward a window. She stopped, flew a bit further and landed on the kitchen counter. I scooped her up, quickly took her outside and she flew into the woods. I didn’t even get a photo as I just wanted her out of the house. Avian influenza is a possibility with wild birds, especially waterfowl, so I didn’t want to hang out with her.

Lots of sanitizing and bagging up of debris followed. Before reassembling the damper, I gave the opening a really good vacuuming to remove all the gritty bits, put the door back, attached the the worm gear and damper rod. It worked!

Our fireplace was a dud from the start, always producing slow, smoky fires. I asked the mason back soon after the house was built to check it out, but he said it must be the wood, must we the way we were making the fires, must be the air exchange unit, the house being too tight, and on and on. We had a fireplace and wood stove in our old cottage and I was pretty good at setting and lighting a fire, so felt confident I knew what I was doing. After a few messy and unsuccessful attempts at a crackling fire, it has mostly just sat unused.

As I tested the damper, I was surprised to find it now opens all the way where it used to only open about half way. So the smoky fires probably weren’t due to my lack of skill or wet wood or the house after all. It was poor workmanship. I think it just needed to be cleaned and the rod correctly aligned. Thanks to the wayward duck, we might be able to have proper fires!

If you haven’t seen wood ducklings jumping from their tree-cavity nest to the ground, search for a video. It’s pretty cute. Ducks are easily my favourite birds, but I never want to see one in my chimney ever again.

Grainy proof of a stuck duck.

Past Treasurer

My mother has submitted her final annual financial report as treasurer of her church’s Atlantic Missionary Society group. They disbanded last year after membership dwindled to just five members all over the age of 75.

She was treasurer since the group formed in 1947.

“Wash your hands clear of it ere you embark”

I am descended from people who came to Prince Edward Island from England and Scotland in the 18th and 19th centuries. Most of my recent ancestry is from Devon and Dorset in the south-west of England, many coming to work in shipbuilding using the plentiful lumber old-growth forest that had stood here untouched forever. My most recent British-born ancestor, GGG grandfather Robert Phillips, came to PEI from Barnstaple, Devon, in 1832 to work as a brass fitter in one the many shipyards.

My family stories extend back only a couple of generations, so I have no accounts of what those ocean crossings were like, what their first impression was of PEI, how they felt about leaving family, friends and country behind, but I have often thought about what that experience would have been like for them.

I recently did a week-long trial membership on Newspapers.com. While it seems an excellent site and probably well worth the subscription price, I didn’t sign up as I was afraid I would do nothing else but read old newspapers for the rest of my life!

During that trial, I searched Devon newspapers from the early 1830s to see if there was any record of Robert’s departure for PEI. That search came up empty, as I had expected, but I did find a wonderful piece in the June 23, 1831 edition of The North Devon Journal and General Advertiser that gave advice to those who were thinking about moving to North America. I wonder if Robert used this article to help him plan his move, or convinced him that such an adventure could be a possibility for their family. Maybe he cut it out and carried around in his pocket.

The author wasn’t named, but they gave very specific and sound guidance, especially about the British North American climate, information that would still be pretty accurate today.

After listing practical supplies needed for the journey and setting up a new home, the author suggested the final item a young man needed to procure was “an active young wife.” As he already had a wife and five children, including two-year old twins, Robert was fine on that account!

The author outlined a plan on how to survive the ocean crossing and insisted that “by attending to these observations, I will insure you landing in good health, and better looking than when you embarked.” The idea that someone in the 1830s would be better looking after their weeks at sea than when they boarded is amusing, as it is certainly more than hinted at in the article that the living quarters on ship left much to be desired. I’m sure it was a miserable, dangerous crossing.

Young men were advised to leave their “party feeling” behind to ensure they didn’t jeopardize their chances of advancing in their new home because they had clung to old political allegiances. Knowing how party politics is deeply ingrained in the DNA of many Islanders – some families here have voted for the same party for generations – I suspect these newcomers might have left the Whigs and Tories behind, but retained the deep need to find a political home in their new country.

I visited Barnstaple 30 years ago. One evening, I walked to the River Taw and stood on a dock looking west. I thought about Robert and Mary Ann arriving with their small children, all under the age of seven, ready to board a ship into the unknown. This article goes some way in filling in the blanks in my family’s story, adding texture and depth to sterile names and dates. They are still out of reach, but I can see them over the horizon.

Emigration.

The following from the pen of a gentleman holding an official situation, has been published in the Irish Paper. As there are many individuals who contemplate emigration in this part of the kingdom, these directions will be found highly useful to those who may carry it into effect.

If you have no fixed place in view, or friends before you, if labour and farming be your object, and you have a family, bend your course to the Canadas; for there you will find the widest field for your exertions, and the greatest demand for labour.

In almost every part of the Middle States of America, you are subject to fever and ague, as also in some parts of Upper Canada. Lower Canada, New Brunswick, and Nova Scotia are exempt in this respect.

I would particularly recommend the months of April and May for going out, as you may then expect a favorable passage; on no account go in July or August, as, from the prevalence of the south-west winds, you will have a tedious passage. Make your bargain for the passage with the owner of the ship, or some well known respectable broker, or ship-master: avoid, by all means, those crimps that are generally found about the docks and quays, near where ships are taking in passengers. Be sure that the ship is going to the port you contract for, as much deception has been practised in this respect. It is important to select a well known captain, and a fast sailing ship, even at a higher rate.

When you arrive at the port you sail for, proceed immediately in the prosecution of your objects, and do not loiter about, or suffer yourself to be advised by designing people, who too often give their opinion unsolicited. If you want advice, and there is no official person at the port you may land at, go to some respectable person or Chief Magistrate, and be guided by his advice.

Let your baggage be put up in as small a compass as possible; get a strong deal chest of convenient size, let it be in the shape of a sailor’s box, broader at bottom than top, so that it will be more steady on board ship; good strong linen or sacking bags will be found very useful. Pack your oatmeal, or flour in a strong barrel, or flax-seed cask, (which you can purchase cheap in the spring of the year.) I would advise, in addition to the usual wood hoops, two iron ones on each cask, with a strong lid and good hinge, and a padlock, &c. Baskets or sacks are better adapted for potatoes than casks.

The following will be found a sufficient supply for a family of five persons for a voyage to North America, viz.— 48 stone of potatoes (if in season, say not after the Isl. of June,) 2cwt. and a-half of oatmeal† or flour, ½ cwt. biscuits; 20lbs. butter in a keg; 1 gallon of spirits; — a little vinegar; — When you contract with the captain for your passage, do not forget to insure a sufficient supply of good water. An adult will require 5 pints per day — children in proportion.

The foregoing will be found a sufficient supply for an emigrant family of five persons, for 60 or 70 days, and will cost about £5 in Ireland or Scotland; in England about 6 or £7; if the emigrant has the means, let him purchase about 11lbs. of tea, and 16lbs. of sugar for his wife.

The preceding statement contains the principle articles of food required, which may be varied as the taste and circumstances of the emigrant may best suit. In parting with your household furniture, &c. reserve a pot, a tea-kettle, frying-pan, feather-bed, (the Irish peasantry possess a feather-bed,) as much coarse linen as you can, and strong woollen stockings — all these will be found very useful on board ship, and at your settlement, and are not difficult to carry. Take your spade and reaping-hook with you, and as many mechanical tools as you can such as augurs, plaines, hammers, chissels, &c., thread, pins, needles, and a strong pair of shoes for winter. — In summer in Canada, very little clothing is required, for six months — only a coarse shirt and linen trowsers, and you will get cheap moccasins (Indian shoes;) you will also get cheap straw hats in the Canadas, which are better for summer than wool hats, and in winter you will require a fur or Scotch woollen cap. Take a little purgative medicine with you, and if you have young children a little suitable medicine for them. Keep your self clean on board ship, eat such food as you have been generally accustomed to, (but in moderation) keep no dirty clothes about your births, or filth of any kind. Keep on deck, and air your bedding daily, when the weather will permit; get up at five o’clock, and retire at eight; take a mug of salt water occasionally in the morning. — By attending to these observations, I will insure you landing in good health, and better looking than when you embarked.

From the great disparity of male over female population in the Canadas, I would advise every young farmer or labourer going out, (who can pay for the passage of two) to take an active young wife with him.

In Lower Canada, and New Brunswick, winter begins about the end of November, and the snow is seldom clear from the ground till the beginning of April. In Nova Scotia, and Prince Edward’s Island, from their insulated situation the winters are milder than in New Brunswick or Lower Canada, and in Upper Canada they are pretty similar to the back part of the State of New York.

The risk of a bad harvest or hay time is rarely felt in Lower Canada, and consequently farming is not attended with so much anxiety or labour as in the United Kingdom. The winters are cold but dry and bracing. I have seen men in the woods, in winter felling trees with their coats off, and otherwise light clothed. The summers are extremely hot, particularly July and August.

The new settler must consult the seasons in all his undertakings and leave nothing to chance, or to be done of another day. The farmers of Lower Canada are worthy of remark in these respects.

In conclusion, I beseech you, if you have any party feeling at home, if you wish to promote your own prosperity, or that of your family, wash your hands clear of it ere you embark. Such characters are looked upon with suspicion in the Colonies; and you could not possibly take with you a worse recommendation.

Prices of living, house rent, labour, &c. in the principal towns of Canada, with the expense of travelling on the great leading routes — In Quebec and Montreal, excellent board and lodging in the principle hotels and boarding houses, 20s. to 30s. per week. Second-rate ditto from 15s. to 20s. per week. Board and lodging for a mechanic or labourer 7s. to 9s. 6d. per week, for which he will get tea, coffee, with meat for breakfast, a good dinner, and supper at night.

  • If potatoes are out of season for keeping, increase the quantity of oatmeal.

  If the Emigrant has any oatmeal to spare, it will sell for more than prime cost.

From The North Devon Journal and General Advertiser – Thursday, June 23, 1831

The Wave

I live in a rural area where fishing and farming are still major economic activities, so when the cold and snow of winter turns to the warmth and mud of spring, our community comes alive.

Dories on trailers sit in yards waiting for the ice to move out of the coves and bays so oyster fishers can resume their work. Large lobster boats, perched on their huge stands, are being cleaned and stocked, engines and pumps tested, so they will be ready for the boat hauler to back in, hoist them up on their trailer, and carry them to the local wharf for the start of the lobster fishing season in May.

Snow blowers are removed from farm tractors, and scrapers installed to smooth muddy, rutted lanes. Manure that piled up next to barns all winter has been hauled and spread on fields that remain frozen in the mornings. It’s a bit too early and the ground too soft to plow most fields, and way to early to plant grain or potatoes, but supplies are being readied.

A friend and I walked a back road near her house this afternoon, and saw pickup trucks stopped on bridges, people looking over the railings to gauge how ready brooks or streams will be for the start of angling season in a couple of days. Birds are returning: robins, red-winged blackbirds, ducks, grackles, and Canada geese flying north. Crows fly by with sticks in their beaks for their nests.

As we walked, we waved at every vehicle that passed. Some we knew, some we didn’t, some we weren’t sure, but we waved anyway because that’s what you do here. To not wave would seem unneighbourly and cold. We waved at the school bus driver, who we do know, twice because he dropped off some children and returned the same way. And everyone waved back.

While I was driving home from my walk, I passed some cousins of mine standing next to – you guessed it – a boat in their yard. They waved, and I saw in them at that moment their father and grandfather and great grandfather, the same turn of the head and looks and smiles. The strong genetic connection between us strengthened and solidified by hundreds of interactions, some involving meals or parties or conversations, but many just waves from yards at passing cars.

We wave as we drive as well. If you are holding your steering wheel with your hands at the 10 and 2 o’clock positions, as everyone was taught long ago (air bags make that unwise now), when you meet a vehicle driven by someone you know, you flick your right hand up, usually just the index and middle finger, in greeting. Sometimes you will wave your whole hand, maybe at someone you were just speaking to on the phone and happen to pass on the road, an acknowledgement of how funny it is that you were just talking and now, look at us, zooming down the road!

I have a cousin (it’s always a cousin with me, as I have dozens of them around here) who I always suspected waved at every car he met, whether he knew the driver or not. I never dared to ask him, because he would have probably thought it an odd thing for me to notice, or the question might have made him self conscious. I confirmed he does wave at everyone when I was driving home for the first time in my present car, with its unusual blue colour that can’t really be mistaken for any other car around here. I met said cousin in his truck and he waved, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t know it was me. He’s just a super waver.

I realise that there is a limit to where I wave. I wave at most everyone within a five kilometre radius of our house, and that can occasionally extend as far as the village of Tyne Valley 16 kilometres away if I meet someone on the road I’m sure I know. No one taught me to do all this waving. It is just the way it is.

I live here because of the waves.

Monumental

Yesterday I finally caught up on my scrapbooks after having fallen behind during the pandemic. These are not the tasteful, fancy, currated scrapbooks of this century, but the newsprint and pot-of-glue ones from the last. It’s a habit I inherited from my mother, and from older neighbours, especially the man who lived across the road from us who had a beautiful, matching set of meticulously maintained scrapbooks that contained newspaper clippings of interest about his family and our community.

What do I save? Newspaper clippings, of course. Obituaries. Ticket stubs. Funny cartoons. Notes. Shopping lists. Articles about friends and family. Bits and pieces of paper I find shoved in books or the bottom of a box. I have a set of scrapbooks about Stewart Memorial Hospital that I started when I joined the hospital auxiliary in 2003; this series will soon be completed as the hospital was closed nearly 10 years ago and the building slated for demolition. I will turn the page.

I also find and save bits and pieces online I mean to write about here, but then digitally tuck away and forget about. Here’s one I just found about a monument to an agricultural pest:

From the Guardian December 28, 1921, page 3

I wrote here recently that I don’t have many regrets in life, but that’s not to say that I wouldn’t do some things differently if I had the chance. I guess what I really mean is that I’m fine with the way things have turned out in life. Peaceful. Grateful.

I also know there is no guarantee that making different choices would have meant my life would have turned out to be better, so looking back with curiosity rather than condemnation is probably for the best.

Oprah Winfrey popularized gratitude journals, which were heartily adopted by millions of her fans and ridiculed by those who saw it as just more New-Age fluff. The thing that Winfrey knew is that finding something to be grateful for each day is like anything else you practice or adopt as a good habit: if you do it when it’s easy, you will likely be able to do it when it is difficult.

Could I build a monument out of “profound appreciation” to my disasters and failures? Probably not immediately after they happened, as the citizens of Enterprise, Alabama did, but in a way I have, by becoming resilient, adaptable and even occasionally fearless. Things knocked me off whatever course I thought I had set for myself, but I righted and sailed on to arrive here, and here is good.

Audiences

I thought I saw it all during my time as a theatre usher, but the story in today’s Guardian about a performance of The Bodyguard musical being halted after audience members refused to stop singing tops every one I have. It certainly never happened at the musical playing when I worked at Theatre Royal Drury Lane in London, nor at Roy Thomson Hall in Toronto. Most of the shows I worked at RTH were Toronto Symphony Orchestra shows and those audiences were incredibly polite and restrained; the worst thing that can happen at a symphony concert is someone clapping between movements!

Roy Thomson Hall was also rented to other artists. Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan performed a fantastic and very long show for an excited and enthusiastic audience. As part of showing their appreciation for him and his music, audience members would make their way to the stage, dance, and toss money at Khan and his musicians. There were probably people singing along, too, but that was expected in this tradition.

I was stationed in one of the upper levels of the hall for the Khan show, enjoying this joyous event, when suddenly a man jumped up from his seat, overwhelmed by both the experience and probably a bit too much to drink, and started down the stairs to the front of my section, seemingly intent on jumping down to the main floor to give money to Khan. His poor wife was crying and pulling on him to stop, and a couple of us ran as fast as we could to intervene. Luckily some men grabbed him as he reached the bottom of the stairs and was getting ready to hoist himself over the railing, and someone helped him find safer passage to the stage.

There was also the evening when some Hong Kong-based pop stars performed to a full house. The audience wasn’t memorable, but it was one of the young singers who caused quite a fuss. He had been a tennis player at one time, and part of his schtick was throwing tennis balls into the audience. He didn’t just gently toss them into the first few rows, but instead lobbed them off the walls of the theatre! Most of the walls at RTH were cement at that time and the balls bounced wildly, bonking people who couldn’t follow the path of the projectiles. The management were livid, but thankfully he didn’t throw too many and no one was seriously injured.

There were always a few difficult patrons, people who weren’t happy with their seats or didn’t like the show, but most audiences were unremarkable and blur together. One audience, though, was unforgettably rude and unpleasant, and it might surprise you to find out who they were.

One December evening in the early 1990s, a religious organization held a Christmas song service for their Toronto region members. There was a delay in getting the stage set, so we couldn’t let the audience in on time, something totally out of front of house control. In my section, questions turned into huffing and puffing and heavy sighing when I denied people entry, promising them it would open soon and they wouldn’t miss anything because actually nothing was happening inside the theatre. People ripped programs out of my hands, others asked to speak to a manager, annoyance and anger tensely buzzing in the air.

After everyone was finally seated and the carol service had started, I went down to the main floor to join other ushers in preparing for intermission and everyone had the same wide-eyed look and similar stories: rudeness, people pushing past, sneering, threats. Some had worked at RTH for years and had never had an evening like it. None of us could believe that this particular group would have been so awful, and the fact that most of the Salvation Army members had been in uniform added a whole other level of strangeness to the evening. I went on to another job where I had dealings with Salvation Army groups and I can’t say anyone ever changed my first impression of them!