Songs and Recipes

There are many things I wish I did when I was younger. I wish I went out more with

friends. I wish I spent a little more money when I had it. I wish I enjoyed high school more than I

did.

Yet, there is one thing I yearn for every day and every moment I think of her. I wish I had

asked my Nana why she loved and looked after me. I wish I got to ask her what stories she read

to me, what games we played, what songs we sang, what stories we shared. The unfortunate part

of all of this, is that I was never thinking about all these questions until it was too late, until

someone asked me about my grandmother, I just never knew.

I grew up with my

Grandmother, we spent a lot of time

together, and now even my

Grandfather will say, “you spent too

much time with her, I always want to

argue with you.” Of course, he is

loving when he says that, but in an ex-

gang member, navy officer type of

way. My Grandmother read this song

for me all the time, called the ‘Animal Fair’. I loved it so much she had to read it to me all day

long. It got to the point I asked my mother to sing it, and my mother was confused so my

Grandmother wrote it down on a piece of paper and gave it to my mother. I still have that piece

of paper tucked away in a scrapbook and I look at it whenever I miss my Grandmother.

 I never could do anything wrong in her eyes, once we were colouring, and we were

talking:

“Nana! Make sure you colour in the lines!”

“What? Do you think I am too old to colour properly?”

“Have you looked in the mirror lately?”

I was just less than three years old by the way, and she told the story to everyone that

breathed around her. She told it until the day she died and laughed whole-heartedly every time

she spoke about it.

The answer I guess, is she loved me and that is why she took care of me the way she did.

I loved stories and writing throughout my childhood, I used to write silly little fairy tales

on blank pieces of paper, staple them together, and share it with my entire grade one class. They

did not make much sense, they did not even have a clear wording, but I loved every second of it

and that is what I remember. Ms. Phillips was my first-grade teacher, and at the end of the year,

she bought me a storybook of fairy tales that reminded her of me. I still have that book today.

As I moved on and accelerated in reading and writing, I was constantly told I should be

an English teacher, even in middle school. People began planning my life for me, and it was kind

of scary in a sense. Teachers constantly used my writing as examples, I was name dropped a lot

(which made me uncomfortable in ways), and I had this extreme anxiety starting to develop
around school. I was a perfect example of the over-achiever diving into hysterics because I was

the example of a perfect student. I even had teachers pit me and my best-friend at the time

against each other because we were the top students, we stopped being friends soon after that.

I had one teacher that grew disappointed in me when she found out I dropped AP

English.

“Why would you drop that? I thought so highly of you! It is important to challenge

yourself!” First of all, she was never even one of my actual teachers, she was my seventh-grade

homeroom teacher, secondly, she kind of irritated me.

Though I loved reading and writing so much, it was a hobby to me, but I convinced

myself that is what I should be doing just because I am good at it.

On my 14th birthday, my nana passed away, I heard the night before she has been crying

for me and begging her own life, that she would be able to see me graduate. It was difficult, and I

stopped writing and reading near after that. I often wondered if she ever wanted to read the

‘Animal Fair’ to me again.

As I got into high school, reading was a task, and one that I despised so much, one that

made me turn away from the work. I still did it because I had to, and I wanted good grades, and

that was my purpose, to get good grades, graduate and go to school to become an English

Teacher. I did AP English and AP social, trying to maintain high A’s and cried at the sight of
86% on a test. English felt like it was digging its claws into me, forcing me to read a piece of

paper that made no sense to me. Shakespeare was difficult to understand, his phrasing did not

make any sense, but I related to Macbeth when he felt like he was going mad. I nearly failed

reading comprehensions, they never made any sense to me! Why would you train my brain to

create opinion and critically analyze, when you make me read inside a box? Authors have failed

their own story reading comprehensions! But… I digress…

People enjoyed this? I find it hard to believe.

I finished my readings but, lethargically.

I hadn’t opened a book for fun since my 14th birthday, there was really no purpose to it if

I couldn’t share the stories with anyone. What I had forgotten is that I can share the story with

myself, and that is what is important. Stories are not for grades, they are not for pain, they are for

your heart and soul. I think my depression and anxiety around being perfect got in the way of

loving reading novels. Like when I was younger and accelerating past the class, it was not

because I was being better than everyone else, it was because I enjoyed reading. It was just the

teachers that put it in my head that the reason I was good at reading was being I was smart.

Really, I was good at reading because I loved to read and write.

As I moved on before applying to university, I went to an open house and met a ‘Mad-

Scientist’ type professor that told me if I didn’t apply for biology, he would be deeply

disappointed in me, of course, he was a joking in a mad-scientist type of way. Something

switched, I looked down at the heart dissection that was sitting on the table and read “University

of Lethbridge Biological Sciences Department”. I changed my mind.

I became a biology major, I disappointed teachers when I visited them again who yearned

to see me pursue AP classes, stress myself out, and conform to their image of me. I simply did

not care anymore.

A few months later I was sitting with my great-aunt, my mother, and my grandfather at a

kitchen table. My grandpa brought out a big box of papers and trinkets. On the table below me,

sat yellowed recipe books and yellowed handwritten recipes, and unfinished handwritten papers.

“Your Grandma was rewriting them for you, she never got to finish them.”

Storytelling and reading are not just for an essay, or even for a novel, it is for a

connection. Sometimes it is for a disgustingly delicious cookie recipe that your grandmother

made you when you were younger, and she wanted to share that with you.

I still miss sharing stories with my grandma. It would be lie if I said I did not. However, I

have met a new friend, called Sherlee who always shares stories with me. We will sit for hours as

she tells me about interesting things she has done, and she has a lot, she is 91 years old. I share

stories with her too, and we learn a lot from talking! I find that there are millions of stories

people have to share, you just have to be willing to listen.

 I started doing what I love, started healing, started taking anti-depressants, I was doing

better.

I read my first full book last week.

I finished it from the prologue, to the conclusion.