Erin's Journals

It’s Wednesday already! And, oh, I love your notes and emails. Yesterday, after the journal that I freestyled about the first day “back to” everything, I got the most wonderful private Facebook note. It comes from a woman named Karen and this story should go viral, it’s so beautiful. But I’m just fine that it stays among us!
 
As you (hopefully) read, I was lamenting never being able to take our little girl to her first day of school. Not for any of them, until much later when I had an unscheduled September off; by that time, she was in high school and was walking with friends or taking the subway.
 

 
I got a note from someone who remembered so clearly Lauren’s first day of school: apparently, I remarked on the radio that she looked like Franklin the Turtle with her backpack on and I was worried she was going to fall over! The woman was so sad about her own child going off that first day, but remembered that my comment made her laugh. Her note was a beautiful gift to start a Tuesday morning and I am forever grateful for the moments that people remember, even if they’ve long slipped my mind.
 
Now, obviously I’m not the only parent who wishes they could have been available for “firsts” that were missed. But it was a message from Karen that just opened my eyes to the wonderful opportunities that can still exist.
 
Of course, moms who are not at their children’s side can be there with their little ones in spirit during school by sending backpack notes or sweet nothings in their lunches. The occasional Hershey’s Kiss can’t hurt, either – just to remind the little ones (or bigger ones, too) that they’re loved and in our hearts.
 
But look at what journal visitor Karen’s daughter did. It’s just astounding and so very tender.
 

 
This little girl’s mom is a kindergarten teacher, thus unable to take her daughter on that first day of school to a class of her own. So yesterday, here’s what she did: she got up early, took chalk and wrote messages of inspiration that her daddy could read to her as he held her hand and walked all along her route to school. (I know, I teared up reading about it, too). You can see some of those messages below:
 

 

 
In case you can’t quite make them out, here’s what a few say:
 

 
I already loved this woman, but those lines from Yeats were the same ones I used as my “Just a Thought” yesterday, so I love her more! There’s also a Dr. Seuss quote and a line from Daniel Tiger. Then an arrow saying ALMOST THERE! And finally this lovely message in chalk on the sidewalk: 
 

 
Isn’t that just THE BEST? How I wish I’d have thought of doing this – and, of course, any parent can do it any day they want to leave a message to their child on their path to the future. What a lovely story – and I thank Clara’s grandma for sharing it with me. Most of all, here’s to all the Moms AND Dads, Grandmas and Grandpas who have gotten through a day of firsts (with or without tears) on the way to many, many more. 
 
My heart is just bursting. What a wonderful way to be with your child, even if you cannot be there in person! Pass it on and have a wonderful Wednesday.
 

“Welcome back, welcome back, welcome ba-a-a-ack….” How many years did we start an hour or a show with that refrain of the theme from TV’s Welcome Back Kotter? More than I can count. But it still resonates today. It’s a day of butterflies and excitement, seeing your crush again after a long – too long – summer apart and finding out who grew a shadow of a moustache (likely me) or if your bestie was going to be in your class. 
 
For many teachers, it’s a day of even bigger butterflies: the notes I got last week after Thursday’s journal about wishes for those starting high school all had a similar theme of being nervous and even having a nightmare about too many students and too few supplies. Trying to remember names, hoping you’ll get through. Teaching is a high calling. May you be the name a student remembers when they’re thanking those who helped them learn lessons in – and out of – the classroom.
 
Outside of school, yellow buses grind back to life after months spent idly parked in fields and lots. The traffic flow is back to “normal,” which, of course, in the GTA is hell ratcheted down to a deeper and even slower level. Lunches have been made (or ingredients purchased for whenever a full school day resumes) and new clothes have been bought for growing bodies.
 
For many, it’s a day of sharing stories and experiences from summer, although face it: in this day of Instagram and texting, are there any secrets about what someone you know was up to for the last few months? Probably not. 
 
Today is the day that fresh challenges begin. I always felt that the day after Labour Day was more of a new start than New Year’s Day.
 
I was always sorry that the beginning of the important Fall Ratings period for radio meant that I couldn’t once see Lauren off to school as a small child heading into new classrooms. Daddy got to take her every time and we knew that was part of the life we’d signed up for, but I always wished I could have, that one day…just once.
 
Or perhaps you’re a parent whose home is empty for the first time and you truly know what it is to have your heart out there in the world. You know you gave them the roots they needed and now they’ve taken wing.
 
I remember sitting sobbing in a taxi as I headed back to Ottawa airport after making sure Lauren was settled and ready for her first year of Algonquin College in radio. I thought my heart would break. All of that following week nine years ago, I cried every night, missing the joyful sounds that came from down the hall, where her bedroom resonated so often with singing. The emptiness was almost too much to bear.
 
But like in most cases, time proved a wonderful healer. Endings bring beginnings and, just as summer’s unofficial close came with the last ride shutting down at the CNE or, in our case, the Saanich Fair, a new crisp, smooth, beautiful white sheet of paper is turned, just waiting for wisdom to be passed on, mistakes to be made and memories to be written.
 
Good luck.
 
Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I’m late for class. Again.
 

Thursday thoughts today include a mix of melancholy and anticipation. We’re just about to begin a new school year and, with that in mind, whatever your stage in life, whether the parent of a child or simply an adult remembering your years as one, you can surely identify with the massive nerves, the dread and, yes, anticipation and excitement. And the tears…ours, theirs; parents’ and children’s.
 
Today I thought I’d share a Back to School journal I wrote when our friend and CHFI producer Ian MacArthur’s son Campbell entered grade nine. Campbell has graduated high school and is making his way in the world, seeking his niche. But years later, I’m hoping these words may resonate with someone you know; feel free to share. Or maybe they’ll resonate with you, yourself.
 
Have a gentle day. And we’ll try not to think about this being Labour Day Weekend ALREADY!

An Open Letter to The Class of……
 
If there is a message I’d try to get through to you today, as you feel butterflies the size of pelicans, it would be this: you’ll feel, at times, as though these days and years are the most important of your life. But, unless you do a spectacular job of screwing them up and come out with a police record, you’ll get through. The queens and kings of prom, sports and cafeteria are – quite possibly – peaking in their teens. Your time will come too – and it’s much sweeter later than sooner.
 
If you can get through these next four years with your dignity and self-respect intact, if you can manage to keep an open mind along with those open books and know that, even if you don’t think you’ll use this “stuff” in years to come, then one day you’ll actually be glad you know why Archimedes got excited in the bathtub and who Iago is when his name’s invoked in reference to a backstabbing confidante. I promise you will. 
 
Try to make memories but not mistakes, and if you do happen to trip and fall, turn it into a lesson. On some days, there are often more things learned outside of a classroom than inside it. 
 
Although for most, the emphasis will be on fitting in – remember that later in life, it’s the ones who stand out who truly make their mark in the world. Not everyone is going to like you. That’s a lesson better learned sooner than later and, although you won’t understand why, you have to accept that it’s just the way it is. Don’t waste your energy trying to be someone’s chocolate if they clearly prefer strawberry. You have no control over how other people feel – even about you – no matter how unfair it is. As Don Miguel Ruiz writes in The Four Agreements, it’s their movie. Sometimes we are barely even extras.
 
Ask questions. It is far worse to feel stupid later because you didn’t, than to fear looking stupid because you did. If you don’t understand, there’s a very good chance that you’re not alone. Not every teacher is exceptional and one you’ll remember the rest of your life; some will need a little help to get their lessons and messages across. Sometimes that help may come from you. 
 
Try to be compassionate when it comes to your teachers; they’re mothers and fathers, partners, sons and daughters and they have bad days, Mondays, PMS, hangovers and hang-ups just like the people you live with or know and love. Cut them some slack and remember: they are human beings. Treat them as you’d want your mom to be treated, if teaching was her vocation. 
 
Treat everyone as you want to be treated – from teachers and custodians to bus drivers and other kids in the hall. Choose carefully which people you let in and don’t let into your life – both in person and on social media. Just as you don’t have to be loved by everyone, nor do you have to confide in anyone. As in the grown-up world, there are Iagos galore. As my grandmother said, “Love many, trust few and always paddle your own canoe.” 
 
I don’t know if Gram even went to high school, and that’s probably wisdom she acquired long after those teen years came and went. But it holds as true today as it would have nearly a century ago. 
 
Just know that no matter how your days and years ahead go, remember: for better or worse, “This, Too, Shall Pass.” 
 
And with the right amount of studying – so, hopefully, will you. 

I’ll be back with you here after a bit of an extended long weekend. Talk to you on Tuesday. Have a wonderful Labour Day weekend.
 

In a world of instant information, how are we supposed to avoid spoilers? A couple of cases that I thought you might find interesting. 
 
FX channel aired a 10-part miniseries called Trust earlier this year. Based on the true story of the kidnapping of Getty Oil heir John Paul Getty III, it’s a drawn-out but captivating series that gives us a glimpse into a miser’s lavish life (Granddad had payphones installed in his mansion, Sutton Place, so as to avoid footing the bill for guests’ and residents’ long-distance calls) and the horrific events that led to his grandson’s loss of an ear in an attempt finally to get the old man’s attention and get serious about a ransom demand.
 
As we watched – at times binged – the episodes last week, I found myself looking up various facts about the era, the family members and the 1973 kidnapping itself. The precarious part was not learning more about the fates of the people whose lives were being played out by Oscar nominees Donald Sutherland and Hilary Swank (Paul Sr. and his daughter-in-law).
 
Not until we finished did we read the eventual fate of the red-haired and free-spirited grandson. We were very careful not to spoil things for ourselves, but grateful that the information was there, once we could stop tip-toeing through the internet to dive in and learn how this story ended.
 

 
Then we come to a fascinating documentary that was brought to our attention a few months ago, Three Identical Strangers, which we were delighted to learn was playing at our small local cinema in Sidney. If you haven’t heard of this story, you’ll want to watch the trailer below.
 
These are real people and actual events; you may even recall when three boys, who had been given up as triplets when they were babies, learned of each other’s existence. It was all over television, newspapers and magazines in 1980. It’s an incredible story and well worth the 90 minutes spent exploring their fates, the many ethical questions raised by the reasons behind their separation and the consequences those events had. You’ll be asking yourself again and again about the age-old argument surrounding nature versus nurture. 
 
What burned my biscuits about this whole experience (besides the story itself, of course) was a New York Times article that first brought it to our attention this summer. The newspaper story was just one big spoiler.
 
Sure, the premise and basis of the documentary were well worth explaining, but the article went on to tell us the fates of the three boys as men, thus not only eliminating any surprises the documentary might contain, but also basically stomping all over a moviegoer’s right to go along for the ride and experience the story from a newcomer’s standpoint. 
 
Just like with Trust, we were not completely ignorant of the story we were watching and some of its details. But in the case of Three Identical Strangers, the entire outcome of the documentary was laid out in black and white. And that wasn’t right. 
 
In 2018, it’s almost impossible to be in the dark about events. We have news fed to us at firehose velocity and, depending upon our willingness to let it in, we can be as informed or uninformed as we choose. I just wish the NYT, in reviewing an incredibly touching and enlightening documentary, hadn’t taken away our right to do just that.
 
See Three Identical Strangers. It will stay with you for days, and that’s one criterion by which I judge any experience as to its worth. Trust me. And here’s the trailer.
 
Talk to you here tomorrow!
 

I’m going to share with you a blog that my dear friend Lisa posted yesterday at her site voiceoflisabrandt.com. When I read the first few lines, I thought she and I had written the same thoughts on the same day; the theme of mine yesterday was “use the good dishes.”
 
I appreciate all of the feedback you sent. So many readers feel the same way about no longer putting off using things that have sentimental value, whether it’s a mother’s pillowcases or precious dishes that have long been “saved” for what, a visit from The Queen? Thank you for your notes.
 
Today I’m sharing Lisa’s journal because it extends that thought further with a message brought home by the death of a beloved co-worker, who died suddenly at home just before her weekend radio shift. She was in her early fifties. May it resonate with you as loudly as it did with me and many of Lisa’s loyal readers. Perhaps you’ll join their ranks after today. 

The Secret to Eternal Life
 
The title of today’s post reads like a clickbait solicitation for a cult, I know. Now you’re afraid that I’ve shaved my head (except for one thin patch down the middle) and quit my job so I can sell flowers at the airport. But that’s not what this story is about. When my paternal Grandma died in the mid-80s, we sorted through all of her stuff. She was a beloved nurse at Brantford General Hospital before her retirement. One of the drawers in a dresser packed with unopened Avon makeup, wrapping paper, rolls of tape and little gifts (Grandma was ready for any occasion) also contained stacks of cards and letters. They were written by patients, colleagues and younger nurses she’d encountered and taught over the years. Many offered thanks for her care, some for her mentorship in the nursing profession, heartfelt and sweet. They revealed a side to Grandma’s life that we never saw; respected professional with a wealth of knowledge she passed on to others.

As we moved through a long line at a Lambeth funeral home on Friday afternoon, those of us who knew and loved Jodi (Orr) Taylor were like living cards, letters and notes. One by one, we told her family about Jodi’s effect on us. From her peers, like me, to young broadcasters she took under her wing, to everyone else whose lives she made better, we cried, laughed and told stories. Despite the somber occasion, I found myself doing an imitation of Jodi for her husband, telling him something funny she had said the last time I talked to her. When he threw his head back and laughed I thought, yeah, she would love that. All of her worlds coming together, appreciating her for the sweet being that touched all of our lives.

We aimed to have her family feel the full weight of our affection for her. As my News Director said, the funeral home looked like a broadcasting convention. Now we have to do what she would want us to: get on with things. But I promise you that radio in London will never be the same. Our little community is shaken and an important part of its foundation is missing. We hugged and cried more tears, then smiled at the sight of her urn: bright red with headphones placed on it, so she could dial us all in. Perfection. 

Jodi set an excellent example for interpersonal relationships. Be a good listener. Always say something positive. Be quick with a compliment. Err on the side of kindness. These are things I always aim to do – most of us do, I think – but would like to do more consistently. I started with an apology on Friday to someone who deserved to hear it, and I meant it, even if it came out awkwardly, which it did. The awkward part is totally my style.

In one of our last discussions, Jodi and I joked about becoming old ladies. She had just had her hair done. Jodi had thick, wavy, crazy-beautiful, almost out-of-control hair, and our talk turned to going grey. She said she looked forward to growing old and being surrounded by her “grand-babies”. No one imagined that she wouldn’t get that opportunity. If I am fortunate enough to reach old lady status, I’ll carry Jodi (as well as my dear friends Kerry Weaver and Lauren Davis Shirakawa) in my heart with me. I promise I won’t squander my chance or take it for granted. And I’ll do my best to be a positive influence on others. If I succeed, perhaps someone will want to hold my memory in their heart. That, my friends, is the secret to eternal life.

Thank you, Lisa, for allowing me to share this here. And a special hug for remembering our Lauren. xox