An Ode to Lost Things, Nov. 29, 2022 Here in the U.S., we just celebrated Thanksgiving, the day when we are supposed to share our bounty and declare all the things that we are thankful for. This time of the year is not the time to be whining about what’s been lost, you know, stuff. We’re even supposed to free ourselves of stuff. While my Lost Things are just stuff, they are essential stuff. And, I would be ever so thankful if my stuff made its way back to me. It’d be a glorious Christmas or Hanukkah or other winter holiday miracle! The memories of the lost stuff have stuck with me. Some items have only been gone a year or two, some decades. But I want them all back no matter how long they’ve been away. If you happen to have my stuff, it is not yours. Those pieces are my property and were not given away freely. You are in possession of stolen goods. In thinking about all this stuff, I got to wondering why I was even thinking about the stuff in the first place. Are our worldly possessions more than stuff? Some mementos are. Some of the stuff whose loss I’ve felt the longest and feel the worst about are related to family. The items spark sentimental feelings, of course. But what is sentiment? Proof that those who bestowed us with the special items existed? And by owning the items, we too exist? And, if we don’t exist in a physical and meaningful way, later in turn able to leave something behind, do we or should we exist at all? And worse than this existential flogging is that in addition to my tragic feelings, my grandmother thought I didn’t like and got rid of these items. Oh, how did I love thee? Let me recount the ways, the ways that you were lost that is. FAMILY ARTICLE ONE The first item to join the land of loss was my grandmother’s old camera. It was from the 40’s I believe. She had noticed that I liked dabbling with my camera so she shared her old one with me. I had so much fun looking into the viewfinder hood on top and pushing the button on the side. I felt like I really worked to get the picture more than with the modern point-and-click. I felt like a budding photographer. The loss of that item feels like the loss of that interest or hobby; like it was taken away before it could develop. {Oooh, a pun!} Hurt. So. Bad. She gave it to me for a birthday. I loved it! At the time, rose gold wasn’t all the rage, so it was also unique. FAMILY ARTICLE TWO Even worse to lose, though, was a piece of jewelry; my grandmother’s rose gold lock baby bracelet. How CANADA Keeps Trying to Keep Me in its Borders, but Won't Admit it Wants Me. Much of the U.S is on pins and needles watching the post-insurrection mid-term elections. Will tight and contentious races go the way we want? Will bleakness yield to hope? Is Georgia on my mind? Ab-so-peachin’-lutely. But you know who, or what seems to be thinking about me? Not California. Not New York. Germany could give a rat's ass. But in case things here go tits up, it seems that one locale is opening its arms to welcome me, offering me an escape. Or, maybe just the opportunity to contact one of its specialists and fill out an evaluation to see if I’m worthy… O, Canada. To date, you’ve played coy. You’re always there, quietly on the fringes, saying “no,” yet showing “yes.” It’s a new era now, Canada. Don’t play games. Just come out and say it. You know you want me, baby (Canada). My family has ‘dabbled’ in Canada. One of my great-grandmothers was born there. Her husband, my great-grandfather (was) moved there as a child. My grandfather was born there but wasn’t considered a Canadian or British citizen, simply a British subject. Gee, thanks for the warm embrace of inclusion, Canada. Despite not fully welcoming my family into the Canadian fold, growing up in northwestern Washington, my mom recalls believing that O’ Canada was her national anthem. Her neck of the woods tuned in more Canadian than U.S. television channels, and the stations back then signed off at night with color bars and “O, Canada”. Time hop a couple of generations and maybe Canada is changing its tune about my family. One summer during my early high school years, my mother wanted to show her Australian friend where she grew up, and from there, visit Canada. This was, ah hem, a while ago, before we needed passports or had Real IDs to cross our northern border. My prior visits to Canada had never been an issue, so no worries. Right? As per usual, we rode the Coho from Washington to Victoria, B.C., Canada. We visited the Butchart Gardens, hit the James Bay Tea Room because the Impress was too touristy, and shopped for Rogers’ Chocolates and Murchies tea – yet sadly, not a Mountie in sight. And, after a day on Canadian soil, it was time to board the ferry back to Washington. It was a sunny day and the winds whipped off the waters onto the ferry’s deck. Upon docking, all us passengers then mooed our way to customs to be cleared to enter the U.S. I knew the drill. I also knew that the border guards drilling me always got tripped up on the point that I was born in a different state than I grew up in. And, as expected, the border guard grilled me on where I was born, where I’m from, and then proceeded to get a bit flustered that those are two different states. Then the real fun kicked in.
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AuthorGreat transitioner & media operative seeking a position as a script coordinator, writers' room assistant, or staff writer with a TV drama. I'm also open to related jobs with networks and production companies. Landing an agent would be awesome. Archives
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