Shelley Cook

When I was a little girl, I remember sleeping at my Amma’s house and waking early to watch Prince Andrew and Sarah Ferguson get married and, of course, all of the extravagance and custom that a royal wedding brings.

My grandmother gushed about the royal affair, talking about Fergie as though she knew her in some way, and ohhing and ahhing over the opulence of it all.

(This, of course, was well before the disgraced prince, who had ties with Jeffrey Epstein and Ghislaine Maxwell, was accused of sexual abuse against a 17-year-old girl.)

In 1986, the Royal Family seemed like a real-life version of the characters in my bedtime stories. I never thought much of them outside of big events, and my grandmother wasn’t a die-hard loyalist in her everyday life. It was only when the big things would happen within the monarchy — weddings and babies — she jumped on the royal bandwagon, and I happily rode along with her.

Earlier this summer, my sister invited us to join her and her girls at a friend’s home for a swim. She was watching the place while they were away, and they’d given her the go ahead for the gathering.

The children splashed around in the pool, doing cannonballs off the diving board, and exploring below the water with nose plugs and goggles. As a group, they had our full attention, though at times one of them (usually one of the youngest) would demand all of it.

“Watch this,” they’d beckon, followed by a jump, splash and some kind of bow or thumbs-up when they resurfaced, indicating they were OK, before making their way to the side of the pool, climbing out, and doing it all over again.

This particular night was perfect for being in the pool. The sun stayed out well into the evening, and the air smelled like summer. We made full use of our invite, going back and forth between the pool and hot tub, which were in close proximity in a backyard we all wished was ours.

We took our kids on a road trip. We drove through three provinces (four, if you count Manitoba) and three time zones, bought snacks and wandered through what seemed to be about a thousand gas stations from Winnipeg to Vancouver, all part of one hell of an adventure.

We reasoned that our kids are getting older, and the opportunities for piling into our minivan and venturing on this kind of family vacation are numbered. We’ve never done anything like this before, and we figured if there was ever a time to do this, now is that time. So off we went, with my partner, Chris, driving, and me — as the 1990s group TLC sang in their hit song No Scrubs — hangin’ out the passenger side of (my) best friend’s ride.

We encountered a lot of nostalgia along the way. The Fuddruckers restaurant in Saskatoon looked the same as the one in Winnipeg in the 1990s. Memories hit us as we chased the sunset west. While trying to give our kids some incredible memories and experiences, we were sprinkled with the ones our parents gave us when we were young.

I’d never done this trek. My partner had. Every once in a while, as we drove that long stretch of highway, he’d tell a little story, or imitate one of his parents’ mannerisms that he remembered from the backseat of a vehicle as their family made their way across Canada.

I’ve been watching a show on HBO called The Rehearsal. It’s written, directed and stars Nathan Fielder (from Nathan for You and This Hour Has 22 Minutes). It’s a docu-comedy type show that you’ll either get and subsequently love, or that you’ll hate because it’s so far out there. That’s sort of standard for Fielder, because his comedy is so awkward and quirky, but it’s also genius. At least in my opinion.

On Friday nights after we get the kids to bed, my partner and I usually get a chance to watch something we want to watch. If I’m being honest, it’s one of the more exciting parts of our day, because that means it’s time to wind down and take a load off. (Also, my kids are into watching some shows that grind on my eardrums, so I welcome the reprieve.)

This is the stage of life and level of excitement we’re in.

Anyway, the show features Fielder, known for his deadpan delivery, who is on a mission to help ordinary people rehearse difficult conversations or life events before they actually go through with the real conversation or life event.

It’s a place to gather, connect and take refuge in the shade from the summer heat or block wind from a winter chill.

The yard of the North Point Douglas Women’s Centre is a meeting spot for people in the community and, until recently, so was the rickety old wooden picnic table at its heart. The table is now gone, succumbed to time, use and Winnipeg’s extreme seasons, replaced (for the meantime) by a couple of stumps someone donated when they cut a tree down.

“There are so many ways that people use this spot — it’s a super popular spot for people in the community,” said Khalida Benedictson, office administrator of NPDWC, adding many would connect there with neighbours for coffee and conversation.

What’s more, Benedictson explained, the table outside was an accessible place for the centre to cater to clients in wheelchairs and with mobility issues, as the building located at 221 Austin St. N. (a former corner store) doesn’t suitably meet those needs of some.

When the work-from-home model became mainstream during the start of the COVID-19 pandemic, it was new and a bit scary.

Those of us with school-aged children were also participating in (and often failing at) home learning and trying our best not to drown in the hectic and foreign dynamic.

I remember how hard it was to adapt to this change, though I knew early on how privileged I was to be able to secure myself and my family during a pandemic.

I missed that work version of myself — the one who did her hair and wore red lipstick; someone who wasn’t being asked for a snack or a glass of chocolate milk every five minutes. I remember how sorely I missed my work friends and our cubicle and lunchroom chats. It felt isolating to be away from that building I spent nearly every single day going to and from.

My youngest daughter and I travelled to Vancouver to visit my sister on the May long weekend.

The city holds a special place in my heart. It was a whirlwind of a trip, though we made the most of our time there, packing in as much as we could.

On the last day, we were driving through the tree-lined streets of a neighbourhood just outside of downtown Vancouver, talking and listening to music. I was high on that feeling of being in vacation mode and filled with fantasies of what it would be like to live in this big, vibrant city, and my sister was basking in our company. There was a bit of sadness in the air, knowing the visit was winding down. I miss her terribly.

The conversation flowed about regular sort of things that happen in our daily lives, and we somehow ended up talking about our goals and hopes for the future — some which seemed impossible or just out of reach. It was easy for both of us to point out the things we lacked or the things we felt defeated in. Looking forward, we were at the beginning of our current journey.

A few weeks ago, I gifted some of my kids’ large plastic backyard toys — including a tower slide and pool combo, a small picnic table, a Little Tikes playhouse and a water table — to friends who have smaller kids.

These toys have taken up so much space in our backyard — a heap of colourful plastic telling everyone in the neighbourhood that yes, we have a bunch of kids who live here.

These structures have been well-loved throughout the early summers of my kids’ lives, though less and less. They have been the setting for some of the most fun days outside in the sunshine, and the backdrop and stage for core memories they’ll take with them into adulthood.

I can’t tell you how many times my kids have had water fights in that old pool, or about the countless dance parties that took place on the top of the tower slide. The water table brought so much joy to my toddler, who grew up too fast.