As I am writing the sun came up and the whole sky is a soft baby pink promising new life. That distant beautiful skyline is enshrouded with innocence.  

But the story of the bundle of letters didn't end there - I was left feeling rejected - but was I?

The message my broken heart heard at the time was that Aaron and even his father had rejected me. My parents were also rejecting me. By not giving me any answer and by leaving me out, my parents were telling me I wasn't worth it. I was the middle unworthy child.

But the mystery of it all kept me intrigued. What did Dad mean when he wondered out loud if he had made a mistake? Why did he want to know how I felt about Aaron? 

Then there was my mother finding out about the letters. How had she found out about the letters? Had my parents discussed Aaron and his father's visit? Why? Had the visit really been about me perhaps? Had they talked about me? Why was Aaron's father involved?

There were other subsequent comments without explanation. Later - much later - my  father wondering if I should have been a farmer's wife? Then there were those odd looks whenever the farm was mentioned. I also learned that, Aaron and his father's hadn't visited their church or with other friends when they had come to BC,  they had just come to talk to my father - so what was that conversation really about? 

Still puzzled, I eventually processed the entire event with a friend  - someone who was also familiar with the culture of the Dutch farmers who had invaded our Greendale community during those years. Her conclusion sent me spinning. "Do you think that Aaron and his father drove all the way from the Maritimes to BC to ask your father for your hand in marriage? I know that you think you were too young for something like that - but during that time, I know of some Dutch girls getting married at the young age of fifteen - or sixteen in prearranged marriages?"

I was startled. I had never thought of it.

She concluded. "it sounds like Aaron had chosen you and persuaded his father that you were the one...."

The penny fell. It was the only explanation that finally made sense to me.

Now looking at the bundle of letters - so many years later with this new insight - it became a "what if" moment. What if - instead of a flat no - my father had consulted me and then after realizing the depth of Aaron's commitment to me and his potential to be an exceptionally caring husband, I had been groomed for marriage. The idea of moving to the Maritimes would not have been an issue for me.  Middle children are free to roam the earth, I've learned.

What if I had married Aaron rather than Cliff. In hindsight, stepping into the fantasy world, life with Aaron looks stable. With him as a husband, I would have focused on a large brood of children that would have all inherited Aaron's wisdoms, stability, compassion and McDreamy eyes. Our love would have multiplied.

In the real life, my choice to marry Cliff, I had chosen a lifestyle that was anything but stable. It was filled with trauma and creative chaos. Candace, a child, who had resembled Cliff in so man ways, had been murdered. The trauma had forced me to write dreary books on forgiveness and survival. None of it had been easy. I could spin our life into a very dark place.

Do I need to forgive my father for stealing my chances for a stable life?

I wonder about the ability of others to decide for us the roads we take in life. My father might have chosen my future mate, but there was someone else who decided to abduct Candace who had also taken our lives into his hands and changed the direction of our lives permanently as well. 

What do we do with that? The ability of others to choose for us - our destiny.
​
Too often in life, something happens and we blame other people for it. We are left feeling unhappy, unsatisfied or unfulfilled. The "what if" question can lead to blame.

I am still holding the bundle of letters. No matter who I would have married, something would have gone wrong. That is the nature of life. Stuff happens. In the end, even though some choices are thrust on us by other, we all still have choices, and we can make the choice to accept people or situations or to not accept them. We can choose to blame, remain angry and become bitter or we can make choices that can turn a disaster into an advantage - turn it into something good..

I realize again, I have no regrets about marrying Cliff. , I married the right man. Life with Cliff was a wild exciting ride and in the end both of us agreed that it had been immensely fulfilling. We had a good life together!

Now as I look down at the bundle of letters  - they no long hold rejection but symbolize great love. If my friend is right, someone loved me enough to travel across the country for me, My father, in his love, chose to protect me and continue to financially support me for another six years. He wanted to keep me close. This opened the doors for Cliff,  another great love that endured the greatest test - the murder of our daughter and many other challenges. Cliff's love healed me - completed me.

In amazement I realize I have changed my view of the letters, I can now release them and, let them go. I am filled with awe and gratitude. I have anew appreciation for life's continuing mysteries.

Downsizing and slowly going through the boxes - I am being freed of the past.

Perhaps downsizing isn't the worst - its a bit like therapy.

I pick up another box. 

​"There's no glory in climbing a mountain if all you want to do is to get to the top. It's experiencing the climb itself - in all its moments of revelation, heartbreak, and fatigue - that has to be the goal."- Karyn Kusama

This letter was different than the other. this letter lacked  details. All it said was that Aaron and his father were going to drive from the Maritimes to visit us in B.C. - something about his father needing to speak to my father. Would I be available?

Of course I would be available. I could hardly wait.

I imagined all kinds of scenarios. For Aaron to be writing and wanting to visit with me at this stage of life was fraught with new  potential.  As young teens, it could turn out to be my very first date. What if after the fathers had talked, Aaron would take his father to wherever they were staying and come back with the car to visit me. Perhaps we would go for a drive somewhere up the mountains and stop at a place overlooking the valley just to  talk and relive all those conversations that we used to have under the weeping willow tree. I would just love to hear about his new life - and feel his eyes seeing me - and holding me.  It would have the feelings of being a date - but not really. My parent's wouldn't have to know - and if they suspected anything, I could just say we were going for a drive as friends and not to worry - Aaron wasn't a boyfriend - he was leaving again. It was just a moment. Surely they wouldn't object. He was just a friend. They had never objected to me playing with my friends before.

I dressed up as prettily as I could -- but remained casual so no one would guess my excitement. Then at the appointed time I hovered by the chestnut tree right outside the my father's gas station. 

A car with strange license pulled up.  It didn't park by the gas pumps or by the station doors but off to the side on the private driveway that led to our house - signaling immediately that this wasn't about the car,  this was a personal visit.

Aaron and his father got out of the car. I stood in full view and smiled - waving ever so gently. Aaron had grown even a little taller - his McDreamy eyes connecting with mine. I could read his mind, His eyes promised to meet after the fathers had  their conversation. There was a hint of subtle quiet anticipation.

It took forever, but they finally emerged out of the station. The mood had changed. Aaron was no longer smiling. His father was livid, turned to look at me scathingly and got into the car without a word. Aaron took a tiny step towards me, then shrugged - his  eyes were distant, shrouded with sadness.. He turned and got into the car with his father and they drove away with out looking back. 

What had my father done? I imagined they had come to ask my father something business-like probably having to do with the farm which had belonged to my uncle. There was that historic business connection. My father had probably said no to whatever they asked. He could be a hard man when he made up his mind - no compromises. They had probably thought his response to their reasonable request offensive. 

I slinked off to the barn and hid for the rest of the day - in absolute misery. The lack of response in Aaron's eyes at the end left me with the conclusion that I wasn't pretty enough for him to stay for even a short visit much less leave his disgruntled father somewhere and come back for a drive. He no longer wanted to be my friend and have a pretend date with me.

At supper that evening, my father was unusually quiet and avoided looking at any of us around the table. Upset with him - I didn't engage either.

After everyone had left the table, he remained seated and as I was clearing the dishes asked me.... "What do you think of Aaron? Did you like him?"

Totally caught off guard, I fumbled for words. My first reaction was that "all boys" were forbidden territory until one turned at least seventeen years old. I was too young to "like" anyone so to confess to having even a "crush" on Aaron would be wrong. Yet, I was a truth-teller - and so was my father. This seemed one of those moments. I nodded. "Yes. I like Aaron but he doesn't like me," I said. "No worries. He's gone home."

But my father didn't get angry at my confession, he just sat there looking at me - and then he said the oddest thing. 
"I hope I didn't make a mistake," he said - half to himself - half to me. The words just hung there with no further explanation. Then he, he shrugged,  got up and left to attend to some customer who had stopped at the gas pumps.

The next day my mother confronted me. "Were you writing to Aaron since they moved to the Maritimes." I confessed that I had expecting all kinds of disapproval but she didn't raise any objections. She seemed almost amused. She too shrugged and went back to work. 

Of course I wrote Aaron a letter - reaching out -  apologizing for whatever  - hoping for answers. 

I never heard from him again. The mystery lingered for years. What had happened between the fathers? I'm still not sure but I do have a theory.

In any case, I kept his bundle of letters never really forgetting my first encounter with love - and the pain of rejection. My heart was broken.  And seeing the letters again even after all these years - I felt it all again - the miserable day hiding in the barn - the questions. Was something wrong with  me? Would I ever find love again?

A lot of people think teenagers haven't gone through anything in their lives - they're not even 20 years old yet. But a twenty-something can go through the same type of experience or heartbreak that a 50-year-old can go through, so why does age matter? - Khalid

​

This morning I have two views. The one from my ninth floor apartment of a distant city scape  -  lights​ against the dark sky waiting for the sun to rise - and the mind's view of the bundle of letters still simmering with memories I haven't resolved. 

During those years, It was a common occurrence to have instant family baseball games. We had enough cousins on both sides to create a team and the fields along side our houses could be turned easily into baseball diamonds with only one problem --  cowpies - especially the soft ones. But that just added to the challenge. 

My Tom Sawyer neighbor would always join us for the game  and now that Aaron was also a neighbor - he was invited as well.  A few hits, a few catches, a few pitches, and Aaron became an instant team captain. 

The worst moment of these games was right in the beginning  when the chosen captains stood apart and started to choose their players. I remember the first time Aaron was captain. I looked down at my shoes, knowing I was the last choice. I might be a great tom boy but I wasn't a natural athlete. Besides I had these beautiful cousins, one looked like a Marilyn Munroe. another like Jennifer Aniston,  there was a Audrey Hepburn and an, Ingrid Bergman. All gorgeous!  I had decided a long time ago that I was no competition. I just  had to ignore it all and concentrate on having good conversations and fun.

You can imagine my surprise when Aaron picked me first. I hesitated - convinced that  he had made a mistake but his gentle McDreamy eyes assured me that he was truly picking me -- seeing me. We had a great game and I did not let him down. 

When I started attending MEI in Clearbrook and he attended Sardis Secondary, we didn't see each other as much. But I do remember when he came to see me personally to tell me that his family was moving to the Maritimes -and that he wanted to stay in touch. He wondered if we could correspond via letters. I hesitated, and thought - "Why?  We will never see each other again,"  I must have voiced my concerns because I remember him assuring me that we would see each other again. I think I cried a little and promised him I would answer his letters. I was devastated. He had become a solid friend - someone I felt safe with. 

True to his word,  his letters came and it was easy to answer them. My father had a roll of stamps and a stack of envelopes at his desk in his gas service station  for everyone to use - and since it was one of my chores to get the letters from the mail box no one knew about the letters. There were no expectations or assumptions.

Corresponding with him  was easy - he described his farm in the Maritimes. I described my life. For the next few years, we just kept writing. We were Pen Pals - it was a thing back then to have pen pals.  I had a special pen pal.

And then one day, I received a short letter.... I was shocked he was coming back to BC for a visit.  

“Life is bearable when you have someone to write, and someone who writes you back. Even if it's just one person.” - Eunjin Jang

I hated him and loved him. 
​
It must have been late spring because I remember how absolutely enthralled I was with the light lime green weeping willow tree and all the mother hens that were scratching for grain with their little broods of chicks following them around the yard.  I scooped one up, and it felt like a cotton ball against my cheek.

When Aaron saw my delight with the chicks, he asked me to follow him into a shed, and there in a dim corner he pointed to a nest where the eggs were just beginning to hatch.  It was like being invited to a drama on opening night.  We watched, enchanted, as the eggs cracked open and exposed scrawny little creatures that didn't look anything like the fluffy things running around the yard.

I noticed that there was one egg with a large crack that didn't seem to be making much progress.

"I'll help," I offered as I bent over to pick it up.

"No, don't touch," he said, standing up to lean against the wall.  "They need to do it all by themselves.  Let's go."

"No.  Look.  Can't you see it needs our help?  If I help it, I'll give it a head start.  It's already late."

He shook his head.  "It will die if you help it too soon."

"I promise I'll be careful."

He shrugged his shoulders.  "Okay.  Find out for yourself."

I cracked the egg and the chick flopped out.  It looked just like all the rest of them as if struggled to find its legs. 
We watched for a while as it flopped around, but when it seemed to be okay, we went to explore the rest of the farm.
Just before it was time to go home, we checked in on the chicks again.  Through a crack in the wall, a shaft of light spotlighted the nest.  My chick had been shoved to the side of the nest, and it wasn't moving.  It was dead.
I was aghast.  "You really knew all along that it would die? Then why did you let me do it?"

"You wouldn't listen You needed to find it out for yourself."

He was right about that.  "Your Dad will be furious," I said.

He shrugged his shoulders.  "He'll never notice.  We have so many."

"What do we do with it?  Where can we bury it?"  I was imagining a tiny grave with a pansy or two and a sprig of weeping willow - anything to alleviate my guilt.

"You don't bury a chick," he said and picked it up.  He walked to the back door, and with his powerful throwing arm, he heaved the tiny body clear over the huge barn and I heard it hit the manure pile with a faint splat.

The whole afternoon had been spoiled. 

"It's life on the farm," he struggled to explain.

"I'm going home."  I bolted for the front door and out of the shed.

My sister had always insisted that I not pollute the world with ugly words.  If I really was angry and needed to spit out a word, I should use pretty words like names of flowers.  But this time daffodils, crocuses, and gladiolus didn't suite the occasion.  I groped for a word— thistle, stinging nettle,...  "Skunk cabbage," I hollered as I ran down the road.  "You're nothing but skunk cabbage!"  But I don't think he heard me; he had already started his evening chores.

A few days later he came by, bought me a chocolate bar and a Coke, and all was forgiven.  And he was right. the memory/teaching moment stuck with me. I wrote out this story in the book I published after Candace's murder as an example of a learning I carried with me. I needed to crack through the shell of grief by myself -  no one could do it for me. 

Aaron had made an indelible impression on my life - one that sustained me when times got tough.

But at that moment of learning - I hated him.

​"The greatest day in your life and mine is when we take total responsibility for our attitudes. That's the day we truly grow up." -  John C Maxwell

To understand the bundle of letters one has to understand the context.

I was a middle child - born to a mother who suffered bouts of depression. Even as a preschooler I found  my way to a loving grandmother who lived across a field from us. During my early school years, I hung out with a neighbor boy who came calling on me early in the morning and we would spend the day roaming the back woods, a kind of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn relationship. We didn't have the Mississippi River but we did have a network of ditches and streams that could swell to resemble rivers after a rain fall. We built rafts. We fished for minnows, collected polywog eggs, and built forts to ward off the invisible enemies that threatened to attack us. In many ways it was idyllic. 

One day my Tom Sawyer friend announced that he had a new neighbor, on the other side, who had invited us to play in his barn -  the grandest barn in the community. I was awestruck when we entered. It was the perfect playground with a ravine of hay bales on the edges, a Tarzan rope hanging from the rafters and a soft pile of straw at the bottom in case we let go of the rope and fell. We chased each other, fell and scrambled up the cliff of bales, swinging on the rope, over and over again.

When we were too exhausted to climb, this new neighbor, Aaron, took us to a private room hidden inside a giant weeping willow tree with branches that touched the ground forming a room curtained off by green leaves. It was all magical.  There we lay on the ground and got to know each other. Aaron wasn't Mennonite like my Tom Sawyer friend and me, but from a similar background, Dutch Reform, who were apparently a distant cultural cousins of ours.

We formed a threesome. Because Aaron was the oldest in his family, he had responsibilities and didn't have as much time to play but when he joined us even for a few hours, it was always memorable.

"True happiness arises, in the first place, from the enjoyment of one's self, and in the next, from the friendship and conversation of a few select companions."  Joseph Addison






  

It was the oldest box ever - marked "Greendale - Furnace Room." I opened it tentatively. 

In the downsizing process of this last month, I was determined to check each box before throwing it out. I wondered if this was the box of my little green scribblers - my diaries - detailing my elementary school days?  If so, I still couldn't throw this box out. It had been with me since leaving my home in the Fraser Valley. I had written them after reading the book by Anne Frank. I had so wanted to be a writer.... I was sure reading them would make me smile.

I opened the box and  glimpsed the green scribblers, but what I didn't expect was the bundle of letters right on top.  Letters? These wouldn't be from Cliff -- he came much later. 

I glanced at the name. and was hit Immediately by a a tsunami of memories. They were from a boy - I'm going to call Aaron. When I was in grade 4 he had moved into our community. He was in grade 5, tall, and had McDreamy eyes. 

I took out the letters and just held them. They now represented a moment in time. - two roads diverging in a yellow wood. A decision had been made - a decision that had made all the difference . In that decision there had been a road not taken. Now in hindsight, I could see the two roads outlined. I knew their destinies. 

Back then, I had not been party to the decision. Was it the right decision?  It looked different now? Do I forgive my father for making a decision for me....?

It is worth exploring.... now so many decades later.

You can't connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. - Steve Jobs



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