Catchy and sometimes goofy, mottos remind us and others who we are.
Paraphernalia like doodads, artwork, sculptures and proverbs tend to surround us in the quarters where we spend time - I wonder why? Is it because we need to be reminded from time to time about our interests, values and character? Or is it to let others know who we are, why we behave as we do, or what is important to us?
How many times have you seen A cluttered desk is a sign of genius hanging in someone's office? T-shirts often tell others about our mood du jour, or that we belong to a certain organization. Bumper stickers used to tell people where we'd been, but now communicate messages about political preferences (ie, The end of an error), hobbies (Gardeners have the best dirt) or just because (Frankly scallop, I don't give a clam.) Personalized license plates help to characterize the driver-I fantasize about the day that my own Angler plate gathers with Trout, Flyfish, Salar and Salmon at the same pool on the Margaree!
I have signs and sayings all over my place. Some of them are fish related; some not. Some were given to me by friends; some I bought myself. One that tells a lot about me is on the fridge: Wine is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.
The wild side of me likes another fridge magnet: Victoria truly believed that well-behaved women seldom make history.
One, long lost, said ve get too soon oldt und too late schmardt. It didn't hold much meaning to me when I was in my 30s, but I wish it were hanging in my house now!
In the entrance to my home hangs a small, framed verse: A Friend is not a feller who is taken in by sham, a Friend is one who knows our faults and doesn't give a damn! It hung in the entrance to my parents' home as well, given to my mother in 1937 by her friend Emmy Nierlich.
Emmy came from Germany in the early '30s to join her husband, Joe, who had a job at the new paper mill in Dalhousie, NB. She and my mother became good friends. Emmy's daughter, Irene, my senior by six months, became my best friend.
There are many treasured memories of our childhood, but one that stands out is my first trip to the dentist. Emmy volunteered to take me, along with Irene of course. As we began the one-mile walk to town, Emmy said that if I didn't talk beforehand, it wouldn't hurt once I got there. I suspect she wanted to be absorbed by her own thoughts rather than the constant chatter of two lively pre-schoolers.
Irene's language was often a mix of German and Canadian. As we passed the church she commented on the steeple of the "kirche" - I so wanted to correct her but was torn between arguing and not hurting at the dentist.
I opted for the latter and it worked. I still don't talk before going to the dentist, and it never hurts!
Being German in small-town northern New Brunswick during the Second World War wasn't easy. Many townspeople seemed to blame gruff Joe and his pretty wife, Emmy, for the conflict among the cultures and countries. As a result, Joe moved his family to a larger, more accepting centre in Ontario. Today as I hear and read about racial profiling of recent immigrants to our country, particularly from Muslim countries, I think plus ça change, plus c'est la meme chose. Fortunately Emmy practiced what she preached. She didn't give a damn about the faults of the people in her initial Canadian home, and kept in touch with my mother.
Another treasure I have hanging in my home is a watercolour by Emmy, who began painting at the age of 75. It is of snow and trees on a gentle slope. It gives me much pleasure both for the scene itself and because it was painted by an old family friend. Emmy died recently at the age of 98, after a life well lived and well loved.
I was in Grade 2 when Irene and her family departed for Upper Canada - I sat by the window for weeks waiting for their car to drive back into our yard. It didn't. Saying farewell to a good friend hurts, even though you know you will keep in touch and meet again from time to time. Even now, when I visit with Irene I feel the same old wrenching when we part.
Though separated by a country, she in the Far West and me in the Far East, Irene and I remain best friends. Our connection has always been strong, cemented for many years by handwritten letters - now by e-mail - and the occasional visit. Irene has daughters; I have sons. I used to fantasize that our friendship would strengthen if we became moms-in-law, but no such luck. Perhaps sometime in the future a couple of our descendants will happen upon each other.
Neither Irene nor I would move away permanently from where we now live. Her roots in British Columbia are as strong as mine in Nova Scotia. We bloom where we're planted. We know who we are, and what is important to us.
This hanging in my home says it all for both of us: this must be the place.